


Generation of Animals: A SHIELD Codex

by KhamanV



Series: The Codex 'Verse [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Catharsis, Fascism, Gen, SHIELD Agent Loki, Season/Series 04, geopolitical thriller, punching the hell out of nazis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhamanV/pseuds/KhamanV
Summary: A phone call from an unexpected source puts Phil Coulson (along with his unlikeliest friend) on the hunt for a resurrected ghost straight out of the worst nightmares of world history - and on the way, Coulson must remember how to uphold the beliefs of his greatest hero, the currently exiled Captain America.By punching Nazis.Lots of Nazis.Really hard.





	1. Alexi-Songbird-Carter

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a part of the general sub-universe of a fanfic series called The SHIELD Codex, but it is possible this is the first story you have come across. As for _some reason_ you might be very up for reading about Nazis being punched. If you are new, all you really need to dive in is this: what with surviving one stupid idea and then many others, the Agents of SHIELD have adopted the strangest of allies - an 'Agent' Loki that has slowly and successfully managed to pull his head out of his ass, earning a place among them.
> 
> The story following is based on fictional concepts and is not intended to represent any existing group or organization, except for the bits where there are Nazis, and SHIELD agents are going to fight them.

 

Generation of Animals

_“Someday, he thought, I would like to meet a monster that looked like a monster.” ~ Ira Levin, The Boys from Brazil_

_. . ._

1\. Alexi-Songbird-Carter

. . .

“Don’t start.” Loki glared at Coulson from where he was looming over the body at his feet. For his part, Agent Phil Coulson was half-slumped against the steel reinforced doorway of the creaking old warehouse with the modified icer weapon clasped in his hands in the down and ready position. “Just don’t even _begin_ with me right now.”

Phil opened his mouth despite the slight but evocative narrowing of Loki’s irritated stare, then settled for a tired grin. He’d dropped his own last assailant and walked in on the last half second of what had probably been about a two second thorough beatdown, as only a trained warrior and sorcerer of Asgard could offer. “Is he breathing, at least?”

Loki glanced down at the near-corpse he’d neatly created out of a smuggler gone attempted criminal mastermind. Fourteen broken bones, three of which were his ribs, the rest in the legs and arms. And, well, fingers. No harm to the skull, and none of those wounds would be impacting the lungs within the abused cage. More importantly, the idiot would not be running again, and most certainly, he would _not_ be using stolen Hammer tech on another batch of surprised SHIELD field agents anytime soon. To his own annoyance, Loki reckoned the fool was yet in better shape than the four badly damaged humans still laid up in the medical facility attached to the Maine office. Good enough. He would survive through his coming interrogation by SHIELD staff. “Technically.”

“Can you expand ‘ _technically’_ into the about three hundred odd words at minimum the Director will want in that section of the after-action report we gotta file tonight?”

“I’ve plenty of words that would work for Mace,” muttered Loki, strictly for himself. He snapped the cuffs of his dark shirt under the darker suit jacket back into proper place, sparing a glance for the small golden links buttoned at his wrists. In a fit of draining fighter’s fury, he kept going. “Walking, talking, cheap suit wearing, color-coded bureaucratic disease of the sensible mind, that one.”

“What was that?” Coulson cocked his head, still amused, having a pretty damn good guess what his friend had said without being able to actually hear it. “Come on, at least fake some professionalism on the topic.”

“I’m saving it for the _ever so important_ after-action report, obviously.” Loki sniffed, acid rolling hot in every tone and gesture, and took a step away from the prone figure, sweeping a glance around at the wooden crates lining the walls. “Does this count as securing his stolen cargo?”

“We need to call in the backup team to help take inventory and mark it all for cleanup.” Coulson holstered his weapon, ignoring the ever-theatrical roll of Loki’s eyes. The phone in his pocket vibrated softly in an odd pattern, some incoming message. Didn’t hit him with the emergency pattern, so he settled for the simple reflex of patting his pocket and remembering to check it over some food. “Can get them moving on the scene within the half hour and go for some fries.”

Loki didn’t actually say the words _kill me_ , but the sentiment got across via the wounded, disgusted look that contorted his face. “It’s very nice how you’re enjoying getting out more again, but must _I_ have to suffer for it?”

Phil laughed, unable to help it. “The only thing I was ever kinda sad about taking the Director’s chair just as you started being less of a career jerk was that we didn’t get to go roadtripping much together. You got to go have all the fun with everyone else in the crew.”

“Yes, I’m very sure it’s all been just terrible for you.” Loki droned his apparent lack of sympathy in a voice as flat as a crepe. “Why, you’ve missed your chance to be shot at continually, stabbed, nearly eaten by eldritch things a ridiculous multiplicity of times, chased out of that bizarre excuse for a despotic country, upset a full coventry of ancient witches-“

“How’s Harkness doing, anyway?”

That forced him to pause. “Analytics adores her. Meanwhile, she texts me constantly with decent questions about the source materials I’ve been handing over. Half-tempted to furlough her to Strange for a few months, get her into the library I’m aware they have at Kamar-Taj. Fairly suitable for her skill level.” Loki snapped his fingers. With almost disappointing mundaneness, a set of disposable plastic zip-strips appeared out of seemingly nowhere, finishing the job of hog-tying the unconscious captive. “Nice tactical segue, Coulson.”

“I let you go, you’ll rant for a half hour. Don’t _you_ start.”

“You enjoy my rants.”

Phil quirked an eyebrow. Mostly true. They were usually better entertainment than the AM band in the car, especially lately. However, he was approaching being genuinely hungry, and he wanted to get this scene sealed up and them moved off onto another job ASAP.

Back when he had been a particularly wiggly seven-year-old, he had been informed one night by his weary parents that he had been inflicted with the dread disease ‘Ants in Your Pants,’ or, if he wanted to be more fancy-Latiny about it, _Formica tua Braccae_. At this older age, now freed somewhat from the role of Director for reasons he understood, if not always agreed with, he realized, yep, that was going to be a lifetime illness. “I’m hungry and I just now got a text I need to get eyes on. Probably got another job lined up already.”

“Oh, stars and dark Gods _forbid_ we get an hour’s worth of downtime where we might parcel out our own thoughts within it. Apt to look upwards to the sky and forget this nonsense set of ‘security restrictions’ he’s got in place to keep everyone in line.” Loki spread his hands with a dramatic shrug.

“You forgot to mumble that one.”

“I did not _forget_.” Loki visibly relented, dismissing his own antics with a look of more casual assessment. It would be a jarring change in attitude, if Phil wasn’t exhaustively used to it at this point. “Certain your text is no emergency?”

“Wrong pattern.” Phil frowned. Come to think of it, the vibration alert hadn’t taken the form of any of his usual signals. He pulled out the phone, figuring he needed to call in the backup squad anyway, so it wouldn’t hurt to take a moment to glance at the name of the new message’s sender. _Nadine Roman_. Then he nearly dropped the device, recognizing the alias. “Loki.”

He was silent, all business in the aftermath of Phil’s stunned look. Sharp eyes now watching him patiently for whatever was needed.

“Do me a _huge_ favor and get that backup on its way in for me. I gotta call this back.”

. . .

Phil kept looking out the alley, knowing Loki would handle the vans when they pulled in. Five proxy connections before he actually managed to get the original caller back on the line, and he was surprised it was that few, considering. The connection on the other end clicked into life, soft white noise. He took one more glance around, making sure he wasn’t being overheard. A gadget in his synthetic wrist would kill any other recording devices in a fifteen foot circle around him. He figured the contact would appreciate that. “Alexi-Songbird-Carter. Verified.”

He could hear the tension ease on the other line. Natasha Romanoff’s low voice replaced it, warm and friendly. “ _Coulson. Agent again, I hear._ ”

“You hear right.”

“ _Bet you’re happier that way._ ” He listened to leather shift against thick fabric. Romanoff was on the move, in a vehicle she’d no doubt ‘borrowed’ from somewhere. Distant noise, a handful of honks of a kind he recognized. The scene was an easy one to visualize. Cheap, boxy cars, dashcams, and what Clint Barton liked to call the ‘tracksuit vampires.’ Back in the old turf again. Eastern Europe definitely. Ukraine itself, perhaps, keeping an eye on the big boys while the rest of the world was in turmoil. She kept busy on her own terms, even with half the Avengers currently underground. A twinge hit him. Thanos might not be a problem any longer, but ordinary human fear was a tougher fight. “ _I got a data hit from a contact I think someone should check on._ ”

“And you didn’t want to feed it into the main SHIELD channels.”

“ _I never trust much, Coulson. But I’ll trust you as a professional. If this is something that’s got fruit in its branches, it should stay hanging low until you know more. Don’t want to tempt the wrong people with this._ ”

Natasha was never florid in her speech like that without a purpose. He pieced together keywords, going from the loose biblical visual all the way to the image of a pile of snakes. He blinked. _Hydra._ He responded in kind, reminding her of fairly recent events. “And you don’t think it’s old news.”

“ _The classics never die, Coulson. Not all the way. You guys shot down most of the big squad, some of the little fry got caught up next, but the idea is still out there. Kind of their thing. Ask the Germans. Hell, ask our other old mutual friend. If you can find him._ ” Another code, a tip on where to possibly go for further information on whatever she thought she had. He realized his hand was clammy around the phone. Natasha Romanoff never gave social calls, and she hadn’t even met with May in months. That he’d known about, anyway. This was big enough to get her to make contact. That was its own code to break, and an easy one.

“You got a drop?”

“ _Check your spam filter, timeframe thirty-nine minutes ago for the hashed .tor address. You’ll need a password. Ask your good bud about the peace treaty he brokered and bribed with me a while back, bearing in mind Clint was not a party to it. He’ll know what I mean._ ”

Loki would know the password, something do with the Latveria job he and Natasha had been on together. Phil arched an eyebrow. He had a tor browser package installed on his burner phone, no connection to the SHIELD grid. That would do the job for him. “Can you give me a hint before I play script kiddie with the spooky darknet?”

“ _I put together a brief at the start of the info packet. Beyond that, I think you should read it for yourself and draw your own conclusions. It’s not a long read, Coulson, but I think that makes it more concerning._ ”

“Okay. Thanks for the call. You take care of yourself out there.”

“ _Always do. Punch the weirdo for me. Hard. And say hi to May. I’ll get with her soon._ ”

The phone went dead in his hand. Phil looked up in time to see Loki ambling towards him, hands in his suit pockets and SHIELD agents working like bees in the background moving the volatile crates of stolen ordinance out of the warehouse. Hard to say whether it was the usual efficiency of the local field team, or, equally probable, the literal fear of a God. “Quick question.”

“Mm.”

“How’d you bribe Nat into not trying to murder you for giggles anyway after the whole Latveria thing was over?”

The answer was immediate. For a mind like Loki’s, the memory was swiftly accessible. “I acquired a bottle of _starka,_ granting it freely to her as a sort of peace offering. Wouldn’t say she was touched, exactly, but it bought me some consideration.”

“Nothing for Barton?”

Loki shrugged. “She indicated he was the cheap beer sort. I have no choice but to concur with the sentiment, based on my own observations.”

“Bingo,” said Phil to his phone and the spam email folder he was pulling up, ignoring the puzzled look he got. Starka. A rare type of Polish vodka. That was his password, or at least the core of it. “So, those fries? I like to eat while I figure out what new hell is about to drop in my lap.”

“Gods, please, let it not be _actual_ Hel for once. I begin to miss the thwap of ordinary mortal bullets. Made today almost pleasant.”

“At least they don’t hurt?”

“Stingy little tickle, typically.” Loki watched Phil continue to meddle with his phone, his human friend quickly disappearing into another level of mental focus. One that wasn’t going to allow him to respond with more than mutters for a few. “I suppose I’m driving.”

“Hng.”

There it was.

. . .

Coulson was dimly aware of the larger black shape draped silently and, somewhat amazing, patiently across the red chair on the other side of the cheap tabletop. His own burger, half eaten, was congealing on its tin foil wrapper in a mess of admittedly delicious grease and cheese. The fries, a ridiculously large portion that spilled into the paper bag like a pond of high-caloric earthly delight, were mostly gone.

The self-styled ‘God of Change’ was also something of a patron of the hypocrites. Pale fingers popped into his view and snagged one of the remaining deep fried survivors. Phil’s stomach gurgled, reminding him he should probably keep eating, even while his mind kept trying to absorb what Romanoff was telling him. His thumb flicked back to her initial brief, picking out the bits where her static words became conversational with him, highlighting how careful she wanted to be.

_I can’t stress enough the caution I believe we should take going forward with this information. This is the stuff of urban legend, but I guess it’s one of the logical endpoints for the old organization. A way to congregate again, strike up the banner under a new, ‘safer’ symbol they can create instead of the obvious old one. Make it all real again. The new Inhumans have been a good place to start for them to build that base in the public eye. And the worst part is, it’ll happen easier and faster than most people will ever realize. Fascism has always been seductive to the right people._

_I grew up in the fog that kind of hate builds. You know that much. It shapes us. It leaves holes behind in that fog, and new people seem to always walk in to fill them back up._

_SHIELD is monitoring the Watchdogs and other supremacist organizations, aware of their roots in ‘simple’ racism and how they’re being normalized by certain public factions. Always a good start for the wrong people who want to be in charge. I’m telling you things you helped write the historical briefs on during the early Cold War, when we needed to remember what came before. But I think this is deeper than that - not a conspiracy, but a recognition of something that’s always been with us. I’ve been watching Norsefire get scary legs in the UK through a few friends. And Odinsrage has their political wing making real inroads in Eastern Europe. Think they turned a few CIA guys. I’ll let you know if I find out for certain. But some of it comes back home to the old red, white, and black._

_If this intel bears out… someone has to kill this piece of it. This head above all others. Fast. And cauterize the stump to show we will not forget the past like this ever again._

Phil licked his lips, not tasting the salt of the fry he was mechanically eating, and went back to the data dump itself. Scientific holdings, scattered and coded across multiple possible locations. Genetic information. Threads of connection between politicians and corporations, some of which were hauntingly familiar. It didn’t seem possible, the conclusion she’d drawn, and yet, after all his years with SHIELD, that meant he believed it utterly. But they were going to need that corroborating information from the source Natasha hinted at, and worse - she was right about the rest. This was going to have to be handled cautiously, hidden well under the wire until he was damn sure no remaining cracks in their system could get their hands on this.

The _last_ thing the remaining scales of that Hydra needed - much less this latest rise of hard-line racism - was a new leader. Not this one.

That meant just him and whatever resources he could pull together off-grid and short-term, relying on his own judgement, and playing as fast and loose as possible until he had no choice but to cut in Mace. A good chance he got discovered and bounced out of the system for the stunt, but what the hell. Some things were worth the risk, because the alternative was a lot worse.

Phil had learned a lot from Nick Fury. Including just _how_ to keep that one eye blind. He thought about that for a moment, until it clicked into place just how he was going to get at some of that corroboration. He put down his phone and looked up at Loki, still silently watching him. “I need to send you on an odd job just about immediately.”

He arched a black eyebrow in response.

“We’ve been sitting on a bunch of small diplomatic missions that got clogged up in the system because of the Accords. You’re gonna go clear one out, totally above board. I’ll shove it through the system through Simmons. Just a simple messenger job, one of those mini-vacays you keep complaining you never get because we’ve been running you ragged for a while.”

“Of course,” Loki said, his voice smooth as silk as his eyes narrowed and darkened at Phil’s undertones, sharply calculating. “Where am I going?”

“Wakanda.”


	2. The Eyes of the Panther

Loki stood at ease in the center of the King’s court. He took it as a measure of some importance that every member of the Dora Milaje that stood in silent attendance never took their focus off of him. They did not stare, they did not even bother to threaten from where they lounged like liquid danger incarnate along chairs set out for their comfort. Save for their initial regard, they seldom bothered to look at him at all. But the sheer _weight_ of their focus was a tangible thing. Eight women, fast and deadly as the first rush of an avalanche, waiting with him in a room filled with the thick aura of the sheer awe they commanded from a foreign visitor. And so he himself felt a slight touch of that awe and formed it into immediate respect. This was a far cry from the shivers of Latveria. These people were proud, and knew themselves to be rightfully so.

The Dora Milaje might have been aspects of Death Herself, and with their trained quickness and hidden vibranium weaponry, his own neck would, quite likely, be sliced apart in an instant if he dared be other than the diplomatic envoy his freshly issued diplomatic credentials stated him as being. They would go down _trying_ at barest minimum, and it would be the King himself who would finish the job, if he deigned to. Loki decided he had no reason nor interest in finding any of these possible scenarios out for certain. They watched over him, silent and alert, and he remained relaxed and utterly nonthreatening.

As if summoned by the thought, King T’Challa loped deliberately across the room towards him from a private office, having finished his study of the introductory document he had accepted through an intermediary, his hands clasped lightly behind the bespoke charcoal wool Gieves & Hawkes suit jacket he wore. He studied Loki in silence at first, utterly fearless. “An interesting figure, for a diplomatic envoy.” His accent was smooth and crisp, caution in every syllable. It was the only warning Loki would be permitted.

Loki bowed his head politely, part of a full and gracefully regal bend at the waist that had been drilled into him since he could walk. A prince before a king. “Of my compatriots, Your Majesty, I know best how to behave within the domain of a royal court.”

“Your compatriots may trust you. What knowledge I hold might not necessarily lend me the same conclusion.” T’Challa watched him straighten up again, noting the make of his own fine black suit. “But this simple political measure you bring does not require me to demand proof of your kinder loyalty to the care of our human race, does it?”

“Perhaps not, however… Consider that your race and mine are expected to learn from our mistakes, Your Majesty. It is known well I have made a _great_ many such mistakes, and the knowledge gained from these hard lessons has been… commensurate.” He bobbed his head again, genteel to the hilt. “I know my limits here, Your Majesty, and I abide by them entirely.”

T’Challa permitted a soft snort. He flicked a hand out, beckoning Loki to follow him through the long hall of the court towards a broad window that overlooked lush, gorgeous jungle. “You come to me officially, it is claimed, when silence has been our shared word in the wake of the Accord’s passage.”

“Officially.” Loki let his small, wry smile color his voice. “Inasmuch as I am here to fulfill the Director’s purpose regarding those certain lapsing matters of politics and security. Unofficially, Your Majesty, I hold my own council here at the behest of a friend.”

“It is wise to not defer the truth for long.” T’Challa didn’t bother to sound approving. It was a fact to be accepted, nothing more. “Your friend?”

“The former Director. Phil Coulson.”

“And what does he seek within the borders of my kingdom?”

“Well. Wholly _unrelated_ to this meeting, I must confide that friend Coulson has a hobby. He has several, really, all of which strike me as arcane and occasionally whimsical. He _collects_ , you see, and it is to his great tragedy that one such collection was ruined some while back.” Loki smiled a little, patting at the pocket within the breast of his suit. A flicker of T’Challa’s eyes granted him permission to withdraw an item from there, another glance informing the king’s security of his decision lest they tense into readiness. “No small fault of my own, of course.”

A trading card appeared in Loki’s hand, the corners of it shopworn and tinted brown across its surface. _Foxed_ , as Coulson would describe some of the staining. The rest of the damage was a few flecks of dried blood that marred the original shield Steve Rogers held when performing for the USO in World War II. A second card slid out from behind it, a pristine copy of the first, kept safe within a thin protective case. That single card had taken Phil almost five years to find, and his hand had shook just a little when handing it over to Loki for this purpose. “The impact on its grading be damned in this sole matter, he wishes someday that the replacement match perfectly.” He turned the cards over to show the king. One was signed, the other not.

He put them away again as T’Challa lifted his chin slightly. “But of course,” Loki continued smoothly. “This is a fool’s errand, for no one knows quite for certain where the Captain has gone to. SHIELD must disavow any such knowledge, and so too must my friend and I.” He shrugged, dismissing the topic.

“Mm.” T’Challa turned away from him to look out at his Wakanda, here perched high above the great panther statue that was his own symbol and guide. Mist draped it and the city of Birnin Zana in its lee, the sun still fighting to warm away the morning’s moisture. “Will it be a relief to the Western people to see SHIELD emerge from the shadows once more, do you think? I know this will come in time. It is the cycle of such things.”

“Not at first,” Loki admitted. “SHIELD was forced to hide, shamed into scurrying by its own failure to be that very shield to its people. Confidence is hard earned once lost.” He breathed a soft, silent laugh. “This is a thing I understand very well. But if the work is true, then it can be done. In time.”

“Hmm. I do not care for the word _mythology_ sometimes, I think.” T’Challa sounded musing. “Mythology is a word meant for the dead. The corpse of faith, the static ash of old gods. When Gods live, as ours do among us here in Wakanda, they must be acknowledged for being as a growing thing. I know much of such mythologies of the world, in order to understand the context of my living faith. We hold no such mythology here. Here, even our dead do live with us. But the people that named _your_ kind to us, their departure places you now in these old ashes. Only handfuls keep the stories as true faith.” A dark eye glanced at him, amused. “How interesting it is, that to them you are only supposed to be a God of Lies. How small a tale is that?”

Loki couldn’t help but snort. “And my own adoptive lord father meant to be a God of Wisdom. Let us talk of adaptational change.”

Something cooled in T’Challa’s manner, the only cue he had made a slight misstep. Loki realized the nature of it instantly, marking it as his own fault in the face of old scars that still occasionally goaded him. The King spoke, neutral enough to allow recovery. “If he yet lives, then he could still become so. But for now, a father nonetheless. This can be a thing to envy, to some.”

Loki inclined his head in an apology. “All such stories are different. I must consider yours in comparison to mine, and did not do so in the face of my own memories, Your Majesty.”

The air warmed again as the king’s shoulders eased. Hands clasped behind the suit once again. “Conflict and pain are intertwined. That much, I think, we can agree on. The outcome of that conflict, that is a matter for a careful judge.”

Loki examined the great statue of the king’s patron God, realizing with a sudden rush of actual _frisson_ across his prickling skin that it had stood guard over this realm since well before _he_ had been born - and even before old Odin himself. Silence took him for a moment, a forced reminder that for all his dismissals and still-lingering bemusement with them, there _were_ deep mysteries to the humans. Ones that would yet take centuries, even for him, to begin to understand.

Frigga had known and tried to teach him that. But it had been _Odin’s_ disregard for the peoples beyond Asgard’s own lands he had learned instead. He frowned considering that, frowned deeper as he thought of that ‘dead’ human mythology T’Challa spoke of. To some of these lingerers today, though not all, old Odin had become a rallying symbol for the exact sort of exclusivity and hate he himself had been taught. Static ash, indeed. And how small a tale?

He shook himself from the reverie with the barest visible toss of his head, realizing the young king was watching him with bemusement. “Again, my apologies.”

“For that, none are required.” T’Challa tossed a gesture of his own head towards the statue. “This is where I often stand at dawn to contemplate what I must owe to my kingdom - and I must owe it _everything_. The eyes reflect this to me, always. It is difficult to forget, when I stand here before its unending regard. I am thankful for that.” T’Challa looked at him again, eyes narrowing. His tone next was neutral again, deliberate. In the words would be a test. “Where do _you_ stand?”

He chose the shape of his response carefully. “I hold no claim to the kingdom of my upbringing, Your Majesty, but I still serve it and all its realms in my own manner. It owes me nothing in return for my work. To that end, I stand with my friends. Sometimes I take a similar look at the rising dawn to try and ensure I remember this, and why.”

T’Challa looked away, signaling the end of their conversation with the first step he took towards his private office. His manner as he moved was agile and light. Loki had passed the test. “You may collect the rest of your brought items at the door. But as you depart my presence, take the left hall and continue down the passage until it ends. You will be met by your guide there.”

“My gratitude, Your Majesty. May we meet again, in circumstances as noble as this.” Loki bowed once more.

“May that be so.” With that, T’Challa disappeared through the door in a waft of soft, rich incense.

. . .

Loki let himself through the door at the end of a long white memorial passage filled with little obsidian icons on stone pedestals and gloriously colorful paintings of long-ago moments of Wakandan history, objects of some scholastic interest he might have liked to return one day to examine better. But for now he glanced around quickly for his ‘guide,’ and saw the broad-shouldered American leaning patiently against the far wall of this smaller social room from where he entered. He offered a small, polite smile. It was not precisely warm, but there was no dislike in it, either. He felt respect for the man now, but he was still forced to hesitate to call any Avenger a ‘friend.’ Save, perhaps, that Lang. It was likely much the same for them.

Captain Steve Rogers nodded back once. “Here on Coulson’s call?”

“That I am.” He tugged his newly-recovered tablet out from underneath his arm, placing it on the black marble tabletop for emphasis. The rest of the files he carried were set aside. “ _Now_ I may say I am here on official, but also fairly illicit business.”

“Why not cut in the new Director?”

Loki flicked a finger across the tablet, pulling up the notes he needed to address for this consult. “It is Coulson’s decision, based on Romanoff’s own justifiable concerns, that this is a matter that needs to be handled swiftly and quietly, and without taking _any_ chance that might serve to embolden those would be strengthened by this development. Certain geopolitical situations are volatile enough right now.”

“In other words, he doesn’t fully trust the new Director.”

Loki straightened up to study Steve’s face, noting a thread of cynical weariness in the crease of his brow. A new development since the last time he’d seen the Captain, a manner at odds with the symbol he represented. The man wore grey today, a sweatshirt hanging loose over dark trousers. Loki spoke carefully, finding it troubling that of all people, it fell to _him_ to stand up for the best of the organization. “He believes wholly in Mace to lead SHIELD in the manner it needs to again reaffirm its place and trust among the public. And now and again, Coulson feels he must trust his own judgment when it comes to matters that may cost him certain of his own capital in this new hierarchy.” He arched an eyebrow. “This is not a paradox.”

“But it does sound like you’re here on serious business.”

“While I am not in a position to have the historical context necessary to feel the import of this situation, I _can_ see how Coulson tensed when he was informed of what I am here to debrief you about. That matters to me. Coulson is a man of your country’s history.” Loki pulled out a chair to seat himself at the table, pulling the tablet in so he could refer to it more easily. “Although when I say _debrief_ , I must stress that this is specifically an informal consult. Would you like to sit?”

Steve shifted against the wall, considering him. His body posture eased somewhat, but he made no motion to move. “I’d rather stand for now.”

Loki swiped at the tablet again. “Of course. Now then. I am here to reaffirm some of what is on the record and also discuss what is _not_ part of that record, in regards to this individual and certain associates.” The profile filled the screen and he turned the tablet to allow Rogers to view it easily.

_Roter Totenkopf - Johann Schmidt._

The first image beneath the file header was that of a striking looking man. A tall, full brow was crowned with swept-back hair that made the developing widow’s peak look almost noble, a popular style among high-ranging members of the Nazi Party. Full cheeks and intense, intelligent eyes rounded out the rest, framed neatly by the collar of the original SS uniform Schmidt wore before being granted the right to build his faction of Hydra loyalists by Hitler himself.

The second picture was starkly different - a cruel skull stripped of these human features, and scarred a bloody, awful red.

Loki pulled out the chair next to him when Steve peeled away from the wall, his face going slack. The man dropped into it, heavy enough to cause the strong wood to creak. “That’s… no, he’s gone. I saw him fall into the Tesseract-“ His face came up in a look of open horror, staring at Loki.

He kept his voice steady, nearly clinical. “In all the short time I served at Sanctuary, I know of no such individual ever discovered in relation to Thanos’s attempts to claim the stone. It is true that I might _not_ know of this, Captain Rogers, but the original man is not what we now must hunt.” He moved the file on to Coulson’s recut of Romanoff’s information. “We are attempting to follow a different tangent - a trail of genetic scientists and researchers who may be doing something _else_ with this grotesque legacy of Schmidt’s.”

Steve swallowed hard, picking up the tablet and scanning the summary offered. He studied it a long time in silence, finally offering up his initial assessment in a throat gone dry and dour. “I guess it would be kind of cliche these days to just clone Hitler.”

“Hitler was not a particularly _good_ leader as I reckon such things. He was intensely charming, popular, and volatile at his podium, but absolute arse at the tactician’s table. I am to understand this drove certain of his underlings mad. Save for the optics, really, why bother?” Loki arched an eyebrow as he reached for the pitcher of water that had been thoughtfully left in the room for them, bemused and unimpressed all at once. He poured the captain a glass, nudging it over to the superhuman soldier. “This individual, this ‘Red Skull,’ remade without certain of his later _burdens_ , shall we say, could be a considerably greater threat as a reborn leader. Those who know this name would be swayed, and those who simply wish to follow the ideals he supported could be used.”

Steve sagged back into the chair, taking a long drink from the glass. He shook his head and set it back down with a careful _clink_.

Loki watched him, growing a small smile as he realized a way to help soothe the man’s suddenly touched nerves. “It is a shame, however. I think Phil would have greatly enjoyed a chance to see Hitler be punched square in the face, live and in color by his living hero.”

That got the laugh he sought. “Only practiced it a couple hundred times.” Steve reached up to scratch at the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes as he continued to look at the information Loki had brought. “This is the Belgium hit. January, 1944.” He scrolled down. “Czechoslovakia, February, same year.”

“You and the ‘Howling Commandos,’ both strikes against entrenched Hydra facilities.” Loki inclined his head slightly. “These are the official records, of course. There are a few scant weeks here between, where the whereabouts of you, these warriors, and Peggy Carter are certainly vouched for by the military record, and yet no verifiable data of your actions exist.”

Steve looked away, his face clouding over at the sound of her name.

“Our new information suggests this narrow timeframe is pertinent to our investigation, Captain.” Loki lowered his voice, appeasing. “I must now ask what happened between these official statements. We believe that information will help us decide where to begin our hunt for this possible threat.”

“It’s also a shame,” said Steve, still looking off as if the past were standing right there. “Peggy could have told you more.” He brought in a corner of his lip to gnaw at it once. “This one was almost all her story.”

“Tell me what _you_ can, please.”


	3. Happy Hunting

 

_Late January, 1944, the Wallonian region, Belgium_

“And you’re under the belief this may be one of Dr. Zola’s facilities?” Peggy Carter didn’t break stride for a second, her rapid gait on thick black boots suitable for the uneven forest terrain forcing the taller soldier from the Free Belgian battalion to jog to keep up with her. With a gesture, she swept the man into the tent set up and camouflaged neatly under the thick trees of the rolling forest that kept them swallowed up and safe while she and the men of the Howling Commandos monitored the aftermath of a recent operation on the outskirts of Brussels. This far south and east, they were capable of intercepting and decoding a number of radio transmissions meant for German ears across the border - and for a bonus, stop more than a few ordinance shipping operations on the Meuse River.

A good way to stay busy, until the small force moved on towards Czechoslovakia for the next planned mission. A most valid use of time. She pursed her lips, glancing around for interlopers and eavesdroppers and finding none. Her eyes met Dugan’s however, where he leaned against a truck covered with a tarp painted the perfect riot of European greens and dotted with leafy netting. Underneath his ever-present bowler cap, he returned her look with the slightest of nods. All clear. Excellent.

“We think so, madame.” The soldier pulled his cap off his head and stepped quickly out of her way as she slipped into the tent next. Never quite able to switch the ability off, her ear kept picking up the way his particular dialect of Belgian French changed and tugged at his English vowels. He would do no good with the preparatory efforts in Caen, she decided almost absently in the back of her mind. The accent would have him pulled out of a group of local Norman French immediately. A fine scout, but he would be better off sent to the _Brigade Piro_ with the other Allies after they pulled out of here. “The Captain Rogers, the _monsieur_ , his activity north draws out a force of soldiers not far from here. Certain locals, they see these men come to their village for supplies in the wake of his act… um, rather they come for, _spécial_ treats, when they are not to, we think. They betray their secret, um, _une conspiration du silence_. They think they are safe with the Captain moved on. Word comes to my superiors of their routes close here through the _forêt_ , and me immediately to you, madame.”

With an efficient flutter of her hands across her desk, Peggy made certain the classified maps under her care remained out of view. But she allowed a fresh, unmarked map of the local region to unfurl neatly across a handful of memorandums that were none of this good gentleman’s business. She plucked up the small box of push pins and scraps suitable for notation, then glanced at the soldier by way of beckoning him. “Show me, if you would.”

She placed the first pin to indicate their current and temporary location, then pulled out a fountain pen so she could prepare notes. The soldier hesitated, his lips working as he did his own calculations to ensure he placed the correct information at the forefront of his mind. If he had been stopped by German forces on his way to this camp, physical proof of his intent would have had him killed. She studied his murmuring, realizing he was using a mnemonic.

Peggy filed that away, too, clinically impressed as she waited to see his work. No, perhaps not an infiltrator, but potentially a _damn_ good messenger. Perhaps she would pen a note to send him the way of certain old friends out of the Park instead, people that could feed him up the line into the SOE proper - the ability to move good information fast and silent was still a treasure. She frowned as she dropped her hands to her hips in wait. _But first, Peggy, let’s see what he’s brought us_.

A moment later he moved swiftly across the map. A small stretch of pins indicated a route that followed the north side of the river, then peeled off into what was known to be deeper forest beyond. “Cave network, madame, a short one. The villagers used, um, some of the caves for food storage in older times. They were built up. And then sealed. They tell us now with the news of the sight of these men, the seals have been changed. New wood. New footsteps. Tire tracks, heavy and deep in the mud. They build inward, but kept secret until recent.” He looked up at her from where he bent. “Not a large place could be in there. A small facility, we think.”

“Did the villagers indicate how many men they’ve seen?”

He looked up at the roof of the heavy canvas tent, lips moving again. “They say… one dozen. Perhaps two. Some are regular, they grow confused by pattern of their movement. But not many. Few soldiers.”

“Zola himself?”

“Ah. Rumor once. But um…” He winced, not immediately finding the right English word. He bent to a blank space of the map, fumbling for another pen. “They see a symbol on crates that pass through the village, they show us. _Le commandant_ , he recognizes it and says you must know, but will not tell us why.”

He scratched at the paper. Peggy frowned as the rough circle seemed to about to shape itself into the standard Hydra sigil at first, the many limbs arranged under a skull - but then it changed. This was… almost ram-like. Her lips parted, recognizing the variant. There were rumors of where Johann Schmidt had gained the idea for his own horrific graft to the Nazi machine, rumors of old cults and strange, almost alien mysticism. A few of his current scientists had taken to the ideas either out of curiosity or something else - but regardless, she _had_ seen it before.

In deeply classified papers stolen from Zola’s previous lairs, of course. Marking project files based on gruesome concepts. Horrific experiments that far preceded Erskine’s work to perfect a super soldier. Oh yes, she had seen this before. Things that might scar another’s memory. Her chin lifted as she considered their next move. Action would have to be decisive. “You’ve done a marvelous job, soldier. What’s your name?”

“I am d’Oultremont, madame. My family.” He bowed his head as she marked that clearly in her mind.

“Well, d’Oultremont, it would best for both your outfit and mine for you to return to your battalion straightaway. However, I want you to know that I will personally pen a letter to commend you for your assistance here.” She left the rest of her ideas unspoken for now, but let her voice carry the rest of her approval. “You have my utmost gratitude today.”

“I am most happy to help, madame. Is there any other assistance my battalion may offer?”

_Indeterminate but low number of soldiers in a fortified underground bunker, direct ties to Dr. Arnim Zola, non-combatant scientists forming the rest of the attachment, probable automated and trapped defenses inside but little outside to ensure they remained unobserved_ … her mind wheeled on, gears clicking and snapping into place as she swiftly imagined the strike op. No, smaller and efficient would be better - and depending on this facility’s particular strategic goal, _safer_ to keep it amongst her odd little warrior family of Howling Commandos. There was only one question to consider… “I think we will have this well in hand, _monsieur_.” She smiled for him, chipper and bright and not the least insult within it. “It would be best for your men to act as if you have seen and heard nothing.”

He bobbed his head and replaced his cap, satisfied. “Thank you, madame.” A quick grin lanced across his face before he turned to go, toothy and broad. “Tell your men for us, please. _Bonne chasse._ ”

. . .

‘Dum Dum’ Dugan kept point as the unit moved as one through low cover away from the Meuse River and into the heavy, damp woods. He glanced back occasionally as sweat trickled down from the band of his hat to be damn sure Happy Sam Sawyer was still holding the flank. His trust in his fellow commandos was total, but field operations had a way of fucking up if a man - or woman - didn’t keep their eye on the target every single second. With that thought in mind, he listened to the almost total lack of sound that was the shape of Agent Carter moving in perfect sync with him through the mud and brush.

Two months ago, Dugan had damn near gotten himself tossed into a French brig for cold-cocking a fellow soldier in an underground bar meant for Resistance fighters. The man had been vocally dismissive of the stoic Agent, but naturally not within her hearing. Unfortunately for the soldier’s bleeding brow, Dugan _had_ been within that cone of sound. He ate the rebuke he got in silence, knowing full well the _second_ fight he would get into would be admitting he’d done it for his friend and fellow soldier - and Carter would probably snap his nose clean off for that.

She was worth at least ten ordinary soldiers at the worst of times, and as far as he was concerned, she was another goddamn Commando in everything but name. So when Peg walked out of her tent yesterday and said that they were going in clean and fast to root out a fresh nest of Nazi scientists and that they were _not_ waiting to rendezvous with Captain Rogers for this operation, Dugan said ‘ _Yes, ma’am_ ’ and sauntered off to prep the gear. Not their first discretionary off-report op. Wasn’t going to be their last.

Carter’s reliable Walther was in hand with her finger off the trigger, low and ready in case they got stumbled into and lit up a firefight. Dernier rotated around the moving team in a scout pattern, and at no point had he called out a notification of anyone active in the woods save for them, but Carter’s eye was never anywhere _but_ the target. Four hours for a two mile crawl. Another fifteen, they would be close enough to the entrance to the cave network that another scout, probably Jones, could recon the entrance and see how the reported faux-boarding functioned. If there were any observers on the job out there, that was likeliest to be first contact.

Dugan narrowed his lips under the bush of his mustache, feeling tension roll through his shoulders. He let it. This was the hairy part, these last few minutes on silent march. The scary part. If something went wrong, it was going to happen fast - and soon.

He felt the chill of Carter’s presence at his shoulder. That was how she sloughed off her tension - she just got harder and scarier right back at whatever was coming. He grinned, feeling better, waiting for Dernier to drop the low whistle to say they were in position.

When it came, Dugan jabbed out with a gesture meant to push Gabe Jones forward. The rest of the unit got into covering places while the former infantryman crept forward in the spreading gloom to assess the entryway to the underground lair. With nightfall coming fast, the dark green of Jones’s uniform and his own natural brown skin meant he was nearly invisible for the few steps of defenseless open ground he had to cover on his belly. Like every Commando, Jones did his work without hesitation, giving his damn best every time.

Dugan watched, eyes starting to dry out as Jones studied and quietly tested the perfectly-aged pile of boards and discarded lumber with his trusty knife. He didn’t so much as cause a squeak as he revealed the first of what had to be several hinges - oh, _that_ was a clever job. Dugan bared his teeth as Jones quickly finished revealing the mechanism of how the entrance operated. With more time, they’d send a pair around in a circle to see if there was a back entrance. Optional in this situation. Logic said there probably was - about a mile north the area dropped down into a steep valley. Good place to cover an emergency exit tunnel.

But if they kept surprise on their side, their targets wouldn’t even have the time to run for it.

“Carter,” he mouthed, reading the signals on Jones’s face and hands. “We’re in play. How do you want to do it?”

Carter was at his shoulder again in a flash. “Fresh hinges?”

“Fresh as a lemon. Won’t make a sound. Nobody on the other side, we’ll have to get in to see if there’s a guard further in or maybe one of those newfangled security systems.” CCTV networks were intensely rare so far, but the Nazis and their offshoot Hydra faction had some scary cutting edge technology on their side. If anyone had one of these connected security monitors set up in their newest bases, it would probably be Zola.

“Perfect.”

“Crawl or guns blazing?”

“Crawl until we’ve no choice. I want surprise to stay in our corner, watching our backs as much as I trust every one of you to do the same.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dugan, satisfied with that. Would make the first punch he threw hit harder, he reckoned, and that was a thing he liked. He looked around and jerked his jaw in forceful command as Jones prepared to carefully pry open the door to the hidden facility. “Jacque, Sam. Flank. We move in, standard pattern.”

. . .

There was a guard, after all. Just one, underneath a currently silent alarm, leaning half-asleep against the thick wooden counter that formed a station about ten meters in and around a short bend from the entry hatch. Told them immediately the kind of resistance they would likely face deeper in, a good sign. Gabe Jones slunk up behind him as the rest of the unit remained in silence and in shadow, glancing within the makeshift but sturdy wooden booth dug into a hard clay and stone cavern to be sure it was indeed just the one lazy soldier in sloppy Nazi dress. Dugan’s firm, bellicose beliefs that never came up in front of a ranking officer - ’if something _can_ fuck up on a mission, it surely fucking _will,_ ’ - were drilled hard into his companions like catechism. But no, the booth was clear. Him, the soldier, and a visitor’s log that looked virtually untouched.

The Nazi probably didn’t even know it happened. Jones came up and grabbed him around the face and neck, pulling him down into unconsciousness with the ruthless efficiency of a crocodile doing a death roll. Sawyer came up to finish the job of trussing the Nazi and stowing him out of sight, neatly pulling away the keyring at the man’s belt without letting it jingle. If they left in a hurry, he could be a useful source to drag out then. Him and that visitor’s log. Peggy swept it into a bag as her gaze roamed the guard station for anything else of potential use, coming up with nothing and moving promptly back into stalking position with the rest of the team. Sawyer passed her the set of keys.

They moved more quickly from there, making it into sight of a sturdy stairwell locked up behind a fence monitored by a stationary camera. Peggy snuck forward under its blind spot until she was able to get a better look at the lockworks. Even just a glance would help her narrow down the right key from the handful on the ring, but she made a mental queue of the likeliest ones to try. From here, there was no choice but to begin to clock up the speed. They would kill the camera to hide their numbers once she made the signal to move, but the bells were still going to go off within the facility. No matter how sleepy the frontline had been.

She tensed, nodded once, and dove for the lock the moment Dugan snapped up to demolish the camera. It popped open on the first try, but she didn’t bother with so much as a smirk of victory. Now the real work began. She glanced down to assess the staircase itself as she straightened and readied to move, seeing how it went down one single floor with the shadow of a door cast upon it.

Dugan came up, leaned over the rail, and saw the exact same thing. The klaxons weren’t going off yet. Every member of the unit was tensed, waiting for it. “We’ll hit it hard and roll in like a storm, Carter. Find out what’s hiding under the rocks here.”

“That we will,” she responded, crisp and already on the move down the stairs.

When they hit the bottom step and saw the ornate, sealed single door with that odd, ram-like version of the Hydra symbol adorning it, the klaxons started to scream bloody murder.


	4. The Parliament of Failures

Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos didn’t bother with the ring of keys, choosing instead one last dance with Lady Surprise. Dugan and Jones lunged forward in ballet-style synchronicity, hauling out with strong enough kicks to pop the hinges off the other side of the ornamented door, then ducking to the side for cover among their allies as it fell in.

A bare handful of gunfire’s familiar snaps and pops chased them, long seconds between fresh shots as the team silently watched over each other and picked good moments to charge in for tactical ground. Peggy moved last, dead-eyed aim standing guard over Dugan as he moved in hard towards what appeared to be the ranking Nazi officer working frantically to reload a shotgun. She took him high in the shoulder with a quick choice to be non-fatal and to let Dugan do the rest, noting clinically the other men being dropped by their assault. Dugan finished snapping like a lad at rugby towards the officer, damn near pushing him through the jutting stone wall he’d been using for support. Dugan looked more than a little satisfied with his rumble as the bloodied officer slid to the ground, out for the count. He was man who reveled in being good at his job, and the job of hitting Nazis with his full bodied strength was still full of new opportunity.

Six soldiers in all, here in a little ring of fire meant to hold fast the entry to the rest of the floor. Four dropped in their tactical rush, two in the initial fire. And then the one at the gate. Peggy set her jaw, certain there had to be more. There were always more. The silence after a firefight always frightened her a little, deep down where it never showed on her face. A chilly rod of anticipation that went from the top of her throat to the bottom of her belly as she waited to see who was still coming for them, waited to find out who of those she cared for were dead, waited to see if she were actually bleeding somewhere after all and this was the moment she herself had finally died.

But only a moment. The silence pulled on, becoming a full minute instead of frozen seconds as the men swept the rest of the arena and prepared to move on to the next room beyond. She realized with familiar warrior’s calm that she had been moving automatically, her body so well trained that she had continued on with her duties in spite of the hidden fears all soldiers knew, sweeping her field of fire and, like them, finding nothing but that odd quiet surrounding them.

She gave the word to press on with a nod. The next door was unlocked, not even a clasp upon it. There were unused keys on the ring she’d taken. Must be a brig somewhere deep beyond the coming main hall. Something. Or false keys to fox a thief, just as possible.

Jones pushed open the steel double doors to the heart of the facility, and the entire company of Commandos simply froze for long, awful seconds.

. . .

There were seven scientists in attendance, and all of them simply knelt in the central aisle of the long hall with their hands above their heads in the classic pose of surrender. Almost every one had those sharp German faces, and on those faces were looks of sorrow and terror. Gabe Jones took point after collecting himself. After Peggy, his mastery of spoken German was the strongest. He questioned the one with the cleanest white jacket, the one with the softest hands, asked him where the rest were. There had been more. They had been told by their sources there were more - maybe two dozen. As he talked, Jones kept his eye on the far end of the hall. It was darker there, lined with strange machinery. The rest of the team began to move forward to check it out.

“No more,” he said softly, not looking up at the American. His English was good but strongly accented. “Us only.”

A soft mutter came from the younger man knelt next to him. “ _Nein_!” came the snapped response, followed by a furtive look of mistrust. Strong enough that he raised his head to look steadily at Carter and Dugan in turn. Under the bare, bright lights, she saw the threads where a patch had been peeled away from his coat. She looked at the rest - all of them had torn off what seemed to be small, round patches where their names and insignia often were.

Carter shared a look with Gabe, catching the murmur. Almost unwilling, she looked at the rows of empty steel gurneys that stood at attention around them like an honor guard. Places where they’d attempted to save suicides. That was the gist of the mutter. Dead men, taking the only exit they had. Another chill passed over her, full of the dawning realization that these surviving men may have simply had enough. With Steve Roger’s successful attack north and the local region in disarray in his wake, perhaps… just perhaps they’d started crawling out of their hole to consider a way to leave. An option she hadn’t considered, because it simply had never been logically possible.

The Hydra loyalists among the Nazi party were just that - _intensely_ loyal.

If something had made these men want to leave… her stomach tightened as she glanced up to check on the forward team. Their rifles were lowered, and they were staring at tall, dark canisters. Their faces were tight. That told her a number of unpleasant things. These were not easily shaken men.

Dugan worked fast to truss up the scientists, Peggy helping him from the other end of the line. Sawyer came back their way from the forward group, waiting until the captives were tugged with relative gentleness against the walls and out of their way. She looked up at him as she continued to study the empty place that marked the end of these men’s faith. “What’s the situation, soldier?”

Sawyer shook his head, pale. “It’s Zola’s work, all right. And _his_.”

Schmidt, of course. The Red Skull himself. She absently touched the bag slung over her shoulder. The visitation logs would be thorough - slight, by the stillness of the dust in the hall upstairs and the way these men looked withdrawn and quiet, but there would be information she could use in it. Verification of who had come to see this particular horror-house of Zola’s.

The same young scientist who had dared to speak shifted where he knelt. He looked to her, and she looked back. A young man, with old eyes burned in from cynicism and weariness. Still a Nazi, still a part of Hydra, and so her sympathy to him was minor - and yet he looked to her as if he wanted to confess.

His superior shot him a look, and the young man ignored him. He knelt forward as if to plead, the action causing Dugan to bring up his rifle just in case. Peggy stepped forward, still looking at the young man. “What is it?”

“This place.” He nodded. “You will execute us.”

She didn’t answer. Let him read what he wanted out of her stoic expression, see what response he gave. What she got was relief. “Thank God, _Fräulein_.”

“What is this place, then?”

“ _Das Parlament des Versagens_. H-house of failures.” He nodded, looking at Dugan and his weapon eagerly. The scientist next to him was shaking his head in denials. “You should burn it. For God.” He opened his mouth, letting it work in silence. “I- I am so sorry to have been here.”

The older scientist trembled once, but didn’t argue. She studied all seven men in turn one more time, showing nothing, unsure what to feel. They would be led out as prisoners to the Allied effort, of course. They had surrendered peacefully. Let justice have them, if not the Nazi guards who had chosen to fight. It was not in her to execute unarmed men, even in this war. Then she stepped down the hall to see what Sawyer and the rest had found.

. . .

The dark canisters were vats. Black, tall vats with thick industrial glass set in their sides, facing the back of the hall so that a a random visitor to the front wouldn’t see their contents. Cabinets of curiosity, rather. As the young scientist had said. A museum for Zola’s work, a memorial to his failed experiments in the name of Hydra and its Red Skull.

Peggy looked up, swallowing once as the dim light from within the canister lit up the soggy shape of a small, failed human construct. A board was chained to the side of the vat, and her hand did not shake for a moment as she reached out to pluck it free for study. She did lick her lips once however, before reading a translation off to Dugan in cool, clinical tone. “Replication subject, Uber 14. Original source failed genetic bind.” The rest was virtually alien to her but her mind wrote it all down anyway. Genetic research was yet blindingly new. Erskine might know more, or Howard Stark.

She moved on to the next. Uber 12, an earlier iteration. This one was shaped as something less than human, a gap in its side. “Failure to grow essential bone structure.”

“Carter, what the hell is all this?” The apple of Dugan’s throat bobbed. They had seen much, knew much of what Schmidt’s men were up to in pursuit of Hydra’s mad goals, but not this.

Another. A recognizable childlike figure. She couldn’t look at the poor thing long, it was almost perfectly formed although the preservation fluid was working its will against it. “Alpha 23. No attempted splice. Modification resulted in…” She put the board down. The dead child had been born with a virus or something similar, a sleeping phage unleashed by toying with the most primal building blocks of creation. She had stopped reading aloud, but her eyes had found the rest. Lived for three hours in agony in a sealed room. Same original genetic source as all the other ones. She noted the code that indicated the dead thing’s identity with calculated distance.

“What were they ‘replicating’? What does _that_ mean?”

She moved on through the aisles of vats, seeing versions of the same experiments carried out with other species - here a row of pigs, there some sheep. And then more melting, broken humans. She paused as Dugan followed her. “Carter?”

She took a slow inhale. “Does anyone in your family garden?”

“I got an aunt. Does roses.”

She nodded. “Exactly like that, if you ever listened to her. You carefully take the graft from a rose, you see. You can plant it anew, just as it is, an entire new plant from the old. Like the original. And later, if you want to make something unique, you can attempt to pollinate it with another type of rose. It has to be something compatible, of course, or you’ll gain nothing or the plant eventually dies.”

Dugan was silent, looking at the vats. “What other kind of ‘rose’ were they using?”

“I don’t know, Dugan.” She took a shallow breath, needing a respite. She looked to her bag, digging for the visitor’s log. “I simply don’t know.”

He stepped to her side, looking over her shoulder as she flipped through its mostly empty pages. Yes, there was Zola. Twice last December. Schmidt probably had been in attendance at least once, but his name often had the rare privilege of not being logged. A handful of scientists, two of whom had recognizable names. At least one was dead in a previous strike. Carter tapped at a listing, one of the last. They’d missed him by a week. He’d been there before. Numerous times. “That one.”

“Reinhardt again.” Dugan sounded dour. Werner Reinhardt. He’d managed to stay out of the Allied eye rather well, but he’d made it into a few of the intelligence dockets that had been made available to Carter. “What’s his angle here?”

She shook her head. It fit his profile, however. Dangerous science. A fascination with something unknown. She thought of the ‘uber’ appellation on a number of the vats. Something spliced in. Oh yes, that was Reinhardt. Working in parallel with Zola, like pen pals from Hell, and the results were here.

Replications. _Clones_. Of some significant source material, and in some cases, blended with something… else.

But they hadn’t worked. This was the house of failures. A dead project, then. _Dear God_ , she thought even while steeling herself to one day find out this prayer would go unanswered. _Let it be a dead project_.

She looked back at some of the vats containing dead humans, recognizing similarities in many of their faces. The ‘Alpha’ line and the ‘Uber’ line. Recognizing they had been both ‘grafted’ from that same single red rose.

She looked at the last board her hand rested on. Bletchley Park had been a haven of code breakers, and she had done well there. Long hours where she missed their particular kind of intellectual hunt. A simple displacement cipher wasn’t going to fox her mind. She put the name together, didn’t speak it aloud. It would make it into her final report, one that would be marked above top secret and more. This was going to remain an off-record operation, whose existence she was going to erase almost utterly.

A house full of warped, dead children, splintered off from their warped and dangerous source. All attempts to ‘improve’ them had seemingly failed. And if there were any kindness in the world, these were the only such children Johann Schmidt would _ever_ have.

Peggy Carter’s voice was the epitome of calm command. “We will be burning this place as we depart, gentlemen. This is the one request of our prisoners that we will honor to our fullest extent.”

. . .

“She only really talked to me about it maybe seven months later. Before that, I got a copy of that report she made, read it in her presence, and we destroyed it right after.” Steve stared, watching the occasional ripple flow across his glass of water. “Three of the scientists managed to suicide once they got pulled back to the main camps and found out they were going to be held as prisoners, not executed. That was after the hand-off, nothing she could have done. She took it… not hard, exactly. I don’t know how to describe it. Some things are complicated. One of them was the man that gave up the place best he could. Not sure what happened to the other four. Maybe died not long after. Maybe got absorbed into the Allied science program to try and atone.”

Loki remained in silence at first, absorbing the story and all the salient details so he could pass them onto Coulson. “There’s a number of these dark little tales hiding in the tapestry of history, aren’t there?”

“Loki, there are thousands and thousands of books that have been written on the European front of the war alone. And all of them miss something. Those of us that were there, we can’t hold every memory.” Steve’s lip quirked, wry. “Yeah. Some secrets go underground for a while. Nobody was going to let the idea of genetic experimentation out to frighten civilians - what _I_ was stayed partially underground. What people _did_ know of what was going on was more than enough.” He looked away. “Anyway. Sometimes it’s not about secrets. Sometimes it’s not being able to talk about what you’ve seen.” He sighed. “Or what you missed.”

Loki leaned back.

“If I regret anything, it’s not being there longer. For the people that didn’t survive long enough to be rescued.” Steve shook his head. “The amount of people the Nazis killed, what that cost humankind, there still aren’t words. I wish I could have done more.”

“Arnim Zola.”

“Mainframe blew up with me and Romanoff in it, couple years back.” Steve reached out to knuckle at the tablet. “Saw the report in there.”

“Mm. Romanoff’s notes indicate it’s probable he still has some sort of a hand in whatever may be going on now.” Loki smiled faintly as Steve raised his head to study him. “He was uploaded there onto, what, a few hundred archaic servers? I expect nowadays you could put a functional enough copy of him on an old iPod. One of the ones with the clicky little wheels.”

Steve looked away to give a silent laugh.

The corner of Loki’s lip quirked slightly. “And Reinhardt is dead. Coulson saw to that himself, with disturbing recentness. Surviving till then under the alias ‘Daniel Whitehall.’ Caused some trouble with the Inhumans.”

“Figures.” Rogers studied the wall. “Might have been one of them that other splice came from for the Uber line. Or something, someone else.”

“Perhaps.” Loki pulled the tablet back towards him, letting the screen go dark. “Hydra had a number of unusual interests, collected particular artifacts. Inhuman history, the histories of the Nine Realms, the Kree to cycle it all back to the beginning again… there are a lot of lost variables here. All this information you and Ms. Carter collected, stored away neatly in SHIELD warehouses, and still much of it is lost.”

Steve nodded, resettling in the chair, glancing at him. “Hydra would have ransacked what they could on their way out the door.”

“Not the first time we’ve encountered a problem due to that.” Loki leaned back, tapping a finger against the edge of the tablet as he thought. “So. There’s what I must take to Coulson. The fears brought to us have a legitimate basis - we may be seeing a… you’ll pardon the unfortunately chosen term… _resurrection_ of Schmidt and his ideals. The return of this foul project. Next I suppose we kick over to some of our scientists on staff, build an idea of how they’ve gone back this direction. And who has helped them. And when it re-started.”

“And then it has to be stopped. Whatever this is. All of it.” Rogers shook his head. “Coulson knows that. _You_ need to understand that. Anyone that gets involved has to.” He looked at Loki, somber. “The Allies didn’t beat the Nazis by being nice to them or giving them second chances. We beat them by beating _on_ them, nonstop, throwing ourselves against them until they had no choice but to give up. The Allies put their leaders on trial so the world could see what they did, so that no one would _ever_ forget.”

He looked away again, the furrow deepening across his brow. “And then I come back, and I see that there are people devoted to trying to forget. To making others believe it never happened. Not the way we saw it.” He breathed, quiet. “The Soviets found Auschwitz in January, 1945. I saw the pictures before we went after the Hydra HQ in the Alps. The Allies, our guys, found Buchenwald about a month after I went into the ice. Do you understand those?”

Loki didn’t try to answer. He did, in as much as it was an intellectual understanding, but he also knew when to keep quiet and listen instead.

“No one ever asks me that old question everyone likes to trot out at parties. If I’d go back in time to kill Hitler before it all got started. They assume I would. But I don’t know. I sometimes don’t think so. Hitler was dangerous, insane, and sometimes thankfully incompetent. But the machine that put him there… it’s hard to know when that started to really grind into action. Historians fight with that question. I was there and I don’t know the answer. There was a background already built for his kind of leadership, something in the mindset, something waiting for the rise of fascism. If it wasn’t Hitler, it would have been someone. Himmler, maybe. Or Schmidt himself.” Rogers trailed off, looking troubled. “Could have become something worse.”

“These factions will not be given another chance. If you have trouble considering that from me, find worry in it, understand that we both know for a certainty Coulson himself will not stand for that fate. For your currently nomadic sake. And for Ms. Carter’s legacy.” Loki pulled the tablet off the table and stowed it amidst the rest of the papers he had brought, watching Rogers pull in on himself and all his old memories.

It should have been Coulson here, Loki understood. A fluke of the Accords, the stodginess of SHIELD’s current system, the virtual disbandment of the Avengers, and it was him standing in for his friend instead. A sigh escaped him. And then he found one more smile for the soldier. “I think he’s seen every scrap of footage of those two hundred-odd times you’ve punched that Hitler. I expect it will be _quite_ the educational reminder in the days to come.”

“ I hope so. This isn’t how I want to see what we fought for come to an end.” Rogers didn’t look at him at first. When he did, the eye was full of old war’s steel. “But if you guys need help… I’ll find a way.”

“It’s what your type does. Good, honest soldiers.” Loki rose to leave, glancing back to see Rogers watching him, still troubled, still serious. “It’s no simple thing to throw away what you are. I expect you haven’t done that, not really.”

“You did.”

“Did I?” Loki smiled. “Not quite. I never forgot, never left it all aside. I simply… changed what it meant for my future.” He lifted his chin. “Ah. Lest I forget. Terribly important.” A neat rummage through his jacket’s pocket brought the pair of cards out once more. A pen followed, a very specific pen selected by Phil. It got a laugh out of the Captain. “For him, if you would.”

Still chuckling, Steve slid the card out of the small case, toying the pen between his fingers. He shook his head, and then signed his name to the back of the pristine trading card. Just as it angled across the back of its predecessor. “Man.”

Loki waited to be certain the ink was dry - a ritual drilled into him by the intensity of Phil’s almost desperate explanations - and then slipped it all away safe into his jacket once more. “I’ll see to it you remain updated on what occurs. One way or another.”

One more nod for a farewell, silent and thoughtful. He was most of the way through the door before Steve’s voice stopped him. “Hey.”

Loki glanced back, arching his eyebrow.

“ _Bonne chasse._ ”


	5. Carbon Copy

“The first thing you need to understand is the difference between what bloody idiots _think_ cloning is, and what it _actually_ is, as the science stands right now.” Dr. Holden Radcliffe paced through the living room of his house, gesticulating wildly as he talked. Coulson sat comfortably on the puffy white couch, and Loki leaned by the door. Both watched the man go back and forth, like a metronome clicking with a rumbling brogue instead of the tink of metal. “All right? Let me be really, _really_ clear, gentlemen. Right now, all cloning is, is mankind overcomplicating a good shag.”

A soft snort came from that white couch.

Radcliffe never broke his stride, whipping through another circuit. “Aye? Full genomic replication is taking out the jazz CD and the bottle of cheap champagne and replacing it all with months of pain in the arse chromosomal monitoring. And that’s if you’re going to be particular about it. See.” He stopped abruptly by one of his silvery countertops, dropping his palms on it. “A lab got a big idea a while back once a sheep came through alright, one of the most obvious ones on the docket. They decide it’s a potential big moneymaker to churn out new versions of the beloved family pet. Rover can live on in a new, young body. _Except -_ well. They tried it with a cat first, same process as Dolly, basically. But nobody noticed the inherent problem with Dolly because sheep feckin’ all look alike. The first cloned cat comes out - they call her Carbon Copy, CC, cute little devil - and her fur’s _different_ although all her genetics were supposed to match. But they’re sunk, right? What’s the point of a cloned pet, doesn’t look like the original pet?”

Radcliffe slapped his hands together, not allowing either of them to answer his rhetorical question. “It’s not just the genetic software, gentlemen. It’s the _entire_ chemical and environmental package what makes us who we are when we pop out after gestation. It’s the temperature of the womb forty days in, it’s the lunches your mother ate, it’s the stress she went through in the last two months before you were born. You want something to come out perfectly alike? You’ve got to handle that _massive_ switchboard of information in the embryo. You’ve got to make sure you don’t cause something in the RNA to go screwy while you’re at it, cause a critical failure or let loose some disease that’s been lurking in the scraps. And then, once the clone’s out in the open air? You’re not replicating the entire set of circumstances that create a given mindset, chaos theory indicates it’s impossible to pull off. Barely works in science fiction any longer. Doesn’t work in reality. There will be divergences, full stop.”

He flapped a hand at the carefully edited brief he’d been given. “Back then, they didn’t even understand DNA. Not yet. Hell, they were probably operating off of a little Linnaeus and a lot of Aristotelian biology. It would be almost another decade before Rosalind Franklin starts patterning out the helix shape of the DNA structure, and a little longer before those other two wankers ran off with it all.”

“As a self-styled transhumanist, I thought you might be rather into the ideas behind the concept itself.” Loki looked amused.

“All my work is on consenting adults, who are after _change_ and _adaptation,_ not outright mucking about with the building blocks. Good way to destabilize the whole organic system.” Radcliffe lifted a finger, looking almost pious. “You’re right, it’s awful bloody fascinating stuff, but it simply doesn’t _work_ the way the stories want. I look onward to the next potential for our kind, I don’t faff about with proven failures.” He pointed at the tablet with its file. “And that’s a most proven failure, gentlemen. What in blazes do they think they’ve got going?”

“That was our question to you.” Coulson grinned, shifting on the couch. “All that aside, if you were gonna be a total Dr. Frankenstein about it, how would you do it?”

Radcliffe scoffed. “Ask your friend Ming the Merciless over there. Got to be _some_ species out there in the big ol’ galaxy doing cloning for realisies. Hell, go through the chain and ask Simmons.” He paused himself, frowning. “Come to think, why _are_ you bothering me and not her?” Answering his own question, he glanced rapidly between his pair of visitors and then blurted, “Oh, bloody hell.”

Ignoring the tangent, Loki pulled away from the wall and wandered over to the central countertop, toying with the files the scientist had been given. “There are a handful of such races that I know of that dabble in these matters, but of them, they’re not races I know well. The science is radically divergent, and at least one of them maintains it as kind of a religion. It’s hardly applicable information, Doctor. And Asgard is oddly… _conservative_ … about certain of its ethics. We do not improve on what we feel does not require such.” He looked up, studying the slack paleness of Radcliffe’s face. Then he glanced at Coulson, amused. “He thinks you brought me here to threaten him.”

“I have been working for SHIELD for maybe two bloody months! Don’t haul me into whatever sort of half-arsed madcap nonsense you two get up to!” Radcliffe rolled his eyes around, as if the entirety of his home had suddenly been bugged. Abruptly, he chose to scream into a green, leafy plant. “I’m not working for them! We’re totally above board! Passed my last security screening, flying colors!” He trailed off, sounding weak. “Oh god, you’re going to get me canned. I actually _like_ this job, you know.”

“Nah.” Coulson leaned back, now practically nestling in the couch. Was a nice one, he had to admit. “You got it out of your system?”

“Eh.” Radcliffe swallowed. He looked somewhat more calm when nothing and no one burst through the door to arrest him for conspiracy. “You gents were never here, aye?”

“Nope.” Coulson lifted his hands, pulling a dramatic poof gesture as if finishing a magic trick, grinning at Loki’s thoroughly unimpressed look. “Just want a few theories to kick around, maybe help us find a direction to go in for starters.”

“Fine.” Radcliffe scruffled a hand across his cap of short, greying hair. He tried again, digging for words. “Look.” Then he sighed. “From what little I can put together, I mean, you get away from the Raelian nuts and the smarter outfits pushing for therapeutic cloning - the folks trying to make new ears and kidneys, yeah? You end up looking at some very fringy groups. _Orrrrr_ very specialized outfits that are bloody good at staying quiet.”

Loki scratched idly at his jaw, looking out the far window. “How would _you_ start? At the beginning. From nothing, or next to nothing, where do you go? For a human. Not a water buffalo, not a cat. A human. What’s the process?”

Radcliffe puffed a breath, grimacing oddly as he thought. “First you need the genetic material you want to copy. Then you need scientific resources to ensure its safety and, well, viability. You need more of these resources to actually continue the project. Then there’s gestating, birthing, raising the babe, which requires all sorts of questions if you’re going to gestate artificially or get a surrogate to carry the embryo. Odds are it’s the latter, because you’d have to invent a mess of new science just to pull it off. And that’s tied in to everything else, because of what I told you about the gestation being as important to the outcome as the genetic material itself. Gentlemen, you need absolutely mad resources. Something insane. You need a system that’s been stable for decades, with enough money to amortize when you go wrong, because you will. This is a _generational_ project. The ultimate overcomplicated shag.” He pointed at the tablet. “So they failed in the 40’s. Almost eighty years later, yeah, if they’ve got the cash, it’s a maybe. But there’s no coupon-clipping here. The money trail will be visible from Jupiter.”

“It happened in house.” Coulson looked at Loki, not a single question in his face. All he’d wanted was confirmation of the obvious. “Hydra built most of the structure for this under SHIELD’s roof while they were being termites, hiding and funneling it through our government contracts.”

“What a terrible shame you’re no longer the Director, where we could then simply pull up a file with a press of a button and gain access to all that information.” Loki intoned the words so deadly flat, it cut more than a little. Coulson visibly winced. Loki wasn’t wrong, exactly, but being him, he was unable to stop rooting around with the acid-stained tip of the knife. “Do we write Mace a charming little memo asking him for that classified information, then, and hope he doesn’t ask why? I’m sure that will go over cleanly and simply.”

Coulson looked away, causing Loki to shift. Then he glanced back, past the now-quiet agent towards Radcliffe.

“Don’t look at me, mate. I don’t have that level of access.”

“Wasn’t that. Was thinking could start going through your old stomping grounds. GT Agrochemical. Gideon Malick cleaned house through there and if they’d been a nexus for this thing, we would have already found it, but we just might find some threads left to follow. Some record of someone else hiding a big project through related companies in that field.” Coulson shrugged. “If we can get into whatever remains of their files. Can’t hurt. It’s a place to start.”

“Storage depot outside Pasadena,” said Radcliffe, immediately. “Physical offsite backups. I know, I sent oodles of paperwork there. Nobody bothers with that crap, not ever. If the depot wasn’t torched at some point, there’s your threads. I mean, maybe.”

Phil got up from the couch with a shrug. “Then that’s where we’ll be. But you don’t know that because, let’s hear it again…”

“Haven’t seen anybody.” Radcliffe lifted both palms in an absurd farewell. He looked relieved. “Don’t know a bloody thing.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

. . .

Coulson led Loki out of Radcliffe’s private residence in silence, glancing around to be sure they didn’t get unlucky and ran into a routine checkup by local field agents, while rooting around in his pocket for the rental’s keys. Ostensibly, he was on a couple days of free ride, earned by long months of nonstop service. Same for his accessible floating time off, now _there_ was an untouched pool of resources. It occurred to him that the last time he willingly took a day off - a whole day, not the occasional evening for the equally rare date - was probably during the 80’s. That did not gain him the chance to pull Lola out of the garage, much less opt for a better car from the agency at any travel point. Besides, it had been raining out here, and he wanted more trunk space for op stuff wherever they went. And the deposit on these things were manageable, if he got one of them shot up.

Of course, his traveling companion was bulletproof. He kept his mind blank otherwise, as far as that score went. No point in being overtly cranky at the alien. History proved out it was the better tactic, anyway.

On the other side of the car, Loki watched him fumble around for a long, quiet moment, then ended up half-pacing a few steps back and forth along the stone-cobbled driveway with narrowed eyes as he figured out the reason for the sudden silent treatment he’d managed to earn with his own sarcasm. “It isn’t you, Coulson, it’s that _Mace_.”

Jangle-jingle. “Mhmm.”

“Simple activity is now layered with levels of nonsense ‘security’ that’s going to result in less security at all, and don’t even talk to me about his _ridiculous_ twee nonsense. A ‘team that trusts.’ There’s two new security cameras in my residential wing, can’t _fathom_ why they’re there or why they have new thermal optics directed right at my rooms. Meanwhile, I’ve done more paperwork in the last five months than I did in a decade’s worth of Asgardian politics, which is not a slight amount, I assure you.”

Phil pulled open the nondescript black door of what was every federal rental car in existence, examining the soul-crushingly bland interior and smelling the not even remotely lemon-scented chemicals some poor minimum wage kid hosed it down with between every loan. Otherwise, he didn’t move.

Loki stopped and looked at him, dropping his hands atop the hood of the beast. For a long moment, he was just as silent. Then, almost fighting the words out of his throat, he managed the minor miracle. “I apologize that I snapped at you. I am frustrated with external mechanics that are now beyond your control, and as much as I acknowledge the politics of that change, I am still loathe to accept it.”

“You chose to stay.” Phil leaned against the car. “Also, thank you for the apology.”

“I was unaware of how very labyrinthine human bureaucracy can become. There are old, aged races in the galaxy that could learn a few things from this, for their efforts to spread madness deep in the mind. I could write a helpful manual.”

Coulson laughed a little before sobering. “Mace means well. He really does. All this crap is his way of not just trying to keep us working as an organization, but so that when we’re public again, he can say in full truthfulness that he’s tried to root out everything that could corrupt us again. It costs. There’s been some sacrifices, absolutely. We don’t look like the same team we were, least not for now. I’m out of sight, I’m not only a bizarre medical miracle, I’m like _the_ emblem of how things used to be for SHIELD.”

“Was that so bad?”

“No, but it’s also not what people need right now.”

Loki shook his head and sighed, visibly uninterested in fighting about the matter any further. “Pasadena?”

“Yeah. Take a while to get out there. It’s gonna be nothing.” That got Phil a look across the hood, probing and confused. “We’re not going to find squat there, it’s a snipe hunt. We need the listings from in-house.”

The confusion shifted into open exasperation. “So what’s the ruddy point?”

“Throws Radcliffe off, for one. Just to help clean him out of our mess. Also, it’s a nice drive, there’s probably still going to be some goons of Malick’s sitting around just in case that we can roll over for the hell of it, and I know you’ve got a contact in your back pocket that can get us into SHIELD’s actual listings. And once all that’s done and we know where to go, the Burbank airport ain’t bad.”

It was Loki’s turn to go silent and wary. Coulson wasn’t supposed to acknowledge that Loki had one single, untraceable contact with the on-the-run Daisy Johnson. To his credit, even as most of the team fretted over her, Phil had never before hinted that he might guess that link existed. “It isn’t that simple.”

“Yeah, I figured. Just whatever you can manage. Don’t even bring me or the team up, I’m not looking to cause drama right now.”

Loki winced, pulling open his side of the car and shifting into drop position. “I’ll see what happens, Coulson. I won’t guarantee a result.”

“Good enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might manage one more update by the end of this week, but whether I do or not, there will be a slight hiatus for the holidays. This is normal and due to family obligations. The story will pick back up shortly after the New Year.


	6. Road Food and Hitting People

Phil Coulson tugged another plastic storage crate out of its position on the rusting steel and wood shelf, thumping it down onto the ground with a fairly mighty _whap_. He looked down the aisle towards where an intensely-bored Loki was standing lookout, facing the front area and the street as he lounged in a doorway only slightly taller than himself. “Anything?”

“Saw a mouse. I expect it wasn’t a Hydra informant.” Loki didn’t bother to look back, much less sound at all serious. By his posture, Phil could tell he was dicking with his phone.

He had a sudden, fairly intense visual of the alien playing something harmlessly inane, like Candy Crush, and blinked it away as probably impossible. He looked down at the crate at his feet and pulled it open. Probably another forty pounds of redacted insurance information, or maybe yet another chemical printout of some industrial lawn care product or whatever that got killed seven years ago before it even crawled up into board presentations. “You don’t know. We can staple cameras to flies. Maybe it’s feeding video out to where about twenty dudes are getting into a van to come kick our ass.”

“You sound entirely too hopeful about this possibility.” The thin, pale face came up to glance over his shoulder, legs shifting position slightly. “The paperwork is that rousing?”

“I’m gonna steal a box to use for insomnia treatments.”

Loki chuckled, the sound of it echoing softly in the empty space. “You _did_ know it was useless. Came here and subjected yourself to it entirely of your own volition.”

“Well, yeah, but I was kind of hoping something might happen to spice it up. Usually does.” Coulson ruffled through the box with his replacement hand, under the logic that his synthetic skin was way more resistant to paper cuts. Yep. Insurance documents.

“We could set the place on fire.” It was followed by a yawn.

“Yeah, I’m not too into random property damage just ‘cause I’m bored.” He looked around, at least imagining the inferno for a moment. He killed the fantasy a second later. Wouldn’t exactly be a great loss, but he had principles. “Anything good on your phone?”

“Mm.”

Phil rolled his eyes at the complete non-answer. He dropped the lid back onto the crate and sat down on it, causing it to creak. The sound got Loki to turn around, who then scanned the rest of the sparse concrete-walled storage unit before looking back at him. “How can you rest? You’ve got…” He glanced again, lips quirking. “At least two hundred more deathly exciting crates you could be going through.”

Phil stuck a leg out, glancing idly at his ankle. “Anything on your end? Any contact?”

Loki shifted, oddly uncomfortable. “Not yet. It’s functionally a dead drop connection, Coulson, it takes a while for a message to get through unless the other party initiates. I was very specific about that feature when I arranged this, and I still don’t like trying to circumvent it. Even for your good cause. Her taking the device was an act of trust.”

Phil studied his own black sock, noticing the way Loki managed to _not_ dramatically overemphasize the last bit. That was always a tell. Not something to push on. Not even if he himself was still worried about Daisy’s disappearance and current status as a fugitive. Well, at least Loki had done his part in trying to make contact. “You worry about her?”

“The entire team worries about her. I worry a bit less than you might expect.” Loki glanced back at the entrance, his expression saying there was still nothing on the approach. “She’s capable, as is apparently standard for those among your compatriots. I have no doubt the day she returns to the fold, she returns having set no few idiots on fire in her wake and herself currently in a most suitable amount of interesting trouble. It seems the fairly classic re-entry, for your personal flock of little black sheep.” The wryness came back, loaded with not a little self-deprecation.

“Yeah.” Coulson pulled in his leg, looking around at the files and trying to decide if he had enough interest, much less gumption, to go through any more boxes just on sheer completionist principle. He didn’t. He also didn’t move, preferring to sit comfortably while he decided what else to do for killing time in the hopes Daisy got back to her messages.

Loki turned, visibly tensing at some distant sound.

“ _Oh, thank God,_ ” mouthed Phil to himself. Louder, he asked, “Big white van full of angry people?”

“Red pickup truck with a security logo I don’t recognize, on the approach. Cheaply painted on the door. One occupant.”

Phil winced, disappointed. “Man.”

He heard the door slam a moment, and then the booming voice floated in loaded with lazy concern. A bearded face floated into view for a second, assessing them both. “You gentlemen got a right to be on this property?”

Phil watched Loki’s back move, the tall figure pulling out a relevant badge to show the guard. Probably the version to suggest they were insurance investigators with state government. When it came to pretending to be someone else, Loki was always a good agent for that situation. Said guard was wearing old khakis, and he got a glimpse of one flannel-coated arm as it bent out to examine the badge and, presumably, the formal figure presenting it. The tone became moderately more respectful, but still firm. “Alright. Now, you gents got a warrant?”

He got up, a little grudgingly. “This was supposed to be a surprise inspection on a legally abandoned property.” That much was true. On the way down, he’d made Loki run the legal paperwork on the place for thoroughness’s sake. With Malick out of the way and a lot of the Hydra infrastructure torn apart, a number of properties and businesses linked to them were being liquidated. This little GT Agrochemical depot was among them, having been purchased in the final few weeks of Hive’s rampage, probably as a just in case measure. That said, legal abandonment was a process that took time. The statement could go either way with this guy.

“Yeah… security contract is still on the books, though. I still get paid, so I come and take a look when folks drop by.” The guard glanced over to take him in with a better look as Phil wandered up next to Loki. “Something serious going on?”

“Nah, it’s surprise, but also fairly routine. Looking for the missing money, you know how it is.” Phil shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he did so. “Won’t change your paycheck, though.”

“That’s the important part.” Beardo looked the pair over. “You taking anything offsite?”

“We’re leaving it the way we found it.”

Beardo shrugged and looked back towards his truck, obviously already mentally turning it back on and leaving. “Then you gentlemen have a good day. Lock up behind yourselves, please. You need something, I’m over on the next block on lunch with a sub.”

Phil watched him leave, sighing once the wheels peeled off towards the brutal-looking industrial complex about a hundred meters away. There was a mini-mall of shops opposite, servicing the area with takeout food. The red truck veered towards it. “Come _on_.”

“What did you want, some sort of other-dimensional creature slithering out of the truck bed to take a chunk out of my leg? It’s been done. I know what it feels like. You knew this one was going to be underwhelming. _I’m_ perfectly happy to find a dull few hours for once.” Loki shook his head, stopping short of actually flinging his hands in the air in exasperation. “What’s gotten into you?”

It was actually a good question. Phil found himself frowning, chewing it over and finding an actual answer to give. “It’s the standard joke with Hydra, you cut off one head, more turn up. It’s cliche at this point. It’s just something you say, a reflex.” He looked off. “What I don’t like right now is, you know, we got down into the chest of the damn thing. We cut it off at the heart this time. Their primordial ‘god’ is down. Their industrial structure is shattered. All their councils are broken, and their tools got kicked down the gutter. Everything from their political schemes to the Winter Soldier has been taken away for good.”

He looked up at Loki. “So why does it never feel like we’re done with them? Why is it that I feel like, instead of exterminating it, we just sort of spread its consciousness around into dozens of even smaller groups like some sort of parasite from hell? Yeah, okay. ‘Hydra’ got killed. Yay, we won, pizza party. But the fascism that fed that machine, the fear, the hate… all of it is stronger than ever. Almost as strong as it was in the 30’s and 40’s.” He sighed. “And you can’t punch an idea in the face that easily.”

“So you want a truck full of easily punchable figures to hit, meanwhile, as you figure out how to strangle the amorphous into submission.”

“Yeah, kinda. And if there’s a group of Hydra or Nazis out there up to no good, that’s something I can fight. That I can try to fix. Tangible, right?”

Loki looked at him, his brow furrowing. “And you fight now without the power and ability you wielded until recently.” The furrow deepened as Phil went still. “I’m not bringing out the same fight I casually started earlier. It’s only an observation. You are just as frustrated with current matters - if not exactly missing the responsibility that came with that rulership.”

Okay, it _was_ a fair enough observation. He managed a mild mutter of agreement, then frowned. “You think that sub place is any good?”

“I don’t know. Is that what this particular off-the-books mission is going to be? Road food and looking for people to hit?”

“Is that so wrong?”

Loki sighed and stalked into the warehouse without another word. With one hand, he yanked up the heavy crate Phil had been sitting on and tossed it offhandedly back up onto its shelf. The wood creaked, but held firm. He stared at the aisle of plastic tubs for a moment before finally muttering a response. “I’m a bad one to ask.”

“Seriously.” Phil squinted as he turned to look at the mini-strip again. “Yeah. Road food and hitting people. Come on. At least this place, the food might actually be kinda fresh.”

. . .

Loki watched Phil eat his sandwich in the cab of the car for a moment before resuming a casual lean against the trunk, his own face a mixture of bemusement at the fairly heroic amount of food wedged within a sliced loaf of bread as long as a forearm. This particular edible stunt was worthy of Volstagg. Humans. He shook his head and looked at the phone in his hand. It had been three hours since he set off a communique through the other ordinary-looking device he’d had Rocket build a pair of, some months ago. More than enough time for it to filter through a complicated system towards its recipient, via a subspace packet method that AT&T had nothing on. If previous talks were any measure - and there had been only a couple such moments - she’d likely bounce a call his way soon.

He got it on the first ring a minute later, looking around and seeing that Phil was still inside the car. He’d stay there, Loki hoped. Daisy wanted her space. That was a thing he understood. “Mm,” was all he said at first, his tone familiar enough for recognition but not pulling out the identity of the caller. “I’m here.”

_“Way to drop a line. ‘Sup?”_ His message had been brief, indicating a minor in-house emergency, and that he was trying to make private contact.

“Need a favor, of the type you can best provide. If you’re not currently in trouble.”

_“About as safe as usual. What favor, and do I get anything out of it?”_

He smiled a little. “I need a directory of information out of the SHIELD databanks, and before you ask, I have good reason to not go through proper channels. And yes, I personally will be in your debt.”

_“A directory. You, or someone else?”_

He hesitated at that. She was sharp, and more so with the natural paranoia that came with being on the run. This was something he knew about. “Technically the latter, but this is my call at my decision.” Mostly true. Phil at least seemed to know better than to push this issue too hard. He glanced again, ensured that the man was still eating. “No one else is listening in. When I make oaths to friends, I keep them.”

He heard the long-suffering sigh on the other hand, a little overdramatic, but not like _he_ had a right to call it out. _“I’m wardriving. That’s not really great for this. Give me a moment to find a better signal to piggyback, if you want me sneaking into the home network. Ummm… ooo, public library. Let me just get into range… okay. I can work with this. Specifically, what directory?”_

“Offsite science facilities with SHIELD and other government contracts, with a strong bias towards genetics or biological research.”

_“I can do that. Can I ask why or will you be like a genie or something and make that my favor?”_

“Parallel to this sneaky call, Coulson received one from Romanoff a couple days prior indicating a serious matter of investigation. We’re on the trail of that.”

_“Plain language version?”_

“Coulson desperately wants to go Nazi-hunting without official oversight, and I’m exactly the wrong person to try and stop him.”

_“Dude, if you’re Nazi hunting, the proper response for anyone is ‘how hard do I hit them,’ and ‘are there a lot because I want to pace myself to make sure I can get them all.’”_

“I’m beginning to understand the enduring cultural popularity of Captain Rogers.”

She must have picked up something in his tone, sounding nearly as excited as Coulson. “ _Have you seen him recently? Is he okay? Is he-“_

“He’s _fine_.” The exasperation was unstoppable. “Yes, I had occasion to speak with him. Yes, it was related to this. Yes, if you ask me to expand on anything more, I will consider _that_ the favor.”

“ _He still got the pecs? Don’t answer that. I’m just gonna assume he does. Also, that groan was probably evidence._ ”

Loki realized abruptly that he had started rubbing his forehead, two fingers and a thumb working his temples as if attempting to keep his brain in. “I’m pleased to hear you’re in fine enough spirits.” The words came out in a dragging sigh. “Did you have some repayment of that favor in mind, or am I going to have ample opportunity to regret this transaction?”

“ _Let me think. So, uh, the latter._ ” She was humming a little as she tapped audibly at a laptop, the most perked up he’d heard of her in months. He shook his head. It was not his place to say it, and so he wouldn’t, but the day would come when she would realize she was far happier among her friends at the agency. He hoped Coulson would also realize that, lest after this diversion he resume his obvious and nearly obsessive attempts to find the girl through more ordinary methods. He probably would, however. The man tended to fret. _“Yay, that directory isn’t buried all the way down in the system. Yeah, it’s still pretty deep, considering you need… Director access or certain specific codes regarding to Science? Are these color coded? The hell is going on with the security?”_

“Don’t ask.” Each word sounded as if it weighed about forty pounds.

_“Jesus. Anyway, batching it over to that other email account of yours. Should get the ping in a sec. All good?”_

He glanced at his phone as the notification came in, feeling the car rock behind him. “Thank you, Miss Johnson, that’s precisely what I needed.”

_“‘Kay, dude. I’ll check in sometime.”_

He rang off, turning to look at Coulson now standing next to the driver’s side door. The man looked like a lost dog. “She’s fine,” said Loki, neutral now for the girl’s sake. “I’ve the information you wanted.”

“She need anything?”

Loki shook his head. “We didn’t discuss much. She claims she is well, I will take her at her word.” It was plain that wasn’t satisfying the human. He found himself slumping against the rental car, making the bumper creak. “Coulson. I tell you what I told her. I will remind you of what I’ve told you in the past. I know a few things about running. You attempt to force her return, much less corral her back amongst the flock before she is damn well ready, you’ll cause a scar.” He looked up at the sky. “This is the one thing I expect you might not listen to me on, even though you know full better, citing quietly to yourself that my mind is not a human one. But try. Focus on the now, and that we can begin to move in a direction where, as desired, you might actually be able to hit someone.”

Coulson frowned. “Full directory?”

“I’ve a compressed file on my phone, by its size I would suggest that it is. I can begin processing it if you like, on the way towards the airport.”

“Okay.” It was subdued, but at least the man was moving. “You can probably skip anything in South America.”

That made Loki wrinkle his face in a curious expression. “Whyfor?”

“Way too cliche, even for these guys.” Coulson glanced at him, seeing that the confusion was not leaving. “Just trust me on that. Nobody’s in _Cândido Godói_ or whatever with this, not again.”


	7. The Crown Victoria Singularity

The new director of SHIELD, Jeffrey Mace, sat like a boulder behind the broad wooden desk so recently vacated by Phil Coulson, and his brow was furrowed in a way that was more than a little familiar. The tense and unhappy look of every individual in charge, when something was clearly off kilter in the system.

By the door, the nameless PR wonk that seemed essentially grafted to the director’s ass twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four, shifted uncomfortably in the silence. He looked at his boss, watching the furrow deepening and smoothing out at regular intervals as Mace studied some paperwork, and he looked at the other visitor to the office, Agent Melinda May, cold and serene, her arms crossed with deceptive calm across her black leather jacket. He himself felt more than a little like a jackrabbit stuck between two top predators quietly eying each other at dinnertime.

The only sounds in the silence were the shuffling of paper, and the softer squeak of her fingertips across the oiled leather. When Mace spoke, the jackrabbit tried to not visibly jump. “Coulson rented a car out of the approved public lot, grabbed another agent, and… he’s doing what? Says here he’s clearing out some old Hydra paperwork.” Mace looked up at May. “Loose threads, says his report. Why he sent that same ranking agent - and let’s not get started on the background behind this guy right now - to Wakanda just previous. More loose threads. So the reports he’s sending in tell me.”

“Agent Coulson is dedicated to the same thing you are, director. Doing his job as thoroughly as possible.” May shifted her weight, causing her jacket to creak again. Nothing showed in her eyes. “Hydra was one of his greatest challenges when he sat in that chair, there’s no question about that. This is his way of, well, seeing it off. Making sure all the knots are tied.”

“Tying knots off or weaving a brand new carpet, Agent May?” Mace let the paperwork drift out of his careful brawler’s hands and leaned back in the chair to study her. He glanced at his PR guy, the narrowing of his brows telling him to let them have the room. The jackrabbit slipped out, looking thankful.

She gave a light shrug after the guy was gone. “He’s using part of his own earned time to clear out things we don’t normally have the manpower to do right now. I think that shows his dedication to a duty he took personally, sir, nothing more.”

“And ‘Brigham Locke’ is riding shotgun.” Mace stressed the name only a little, fully aware of the actual identity. May knew Coulson had kicked around trying to fully bury the agency’s biggest walking secret under one of those shell personalities he and Loki had baked into the system before he stepped down, but between Mace’s own lack of stupidity and the more recent development of putting the alien in charge of any future incidents of, as Phil put it, ‘weird magic crap,’ it essentially killed that idea in the pan. “Our own walking WMD, with a galactic war criminal’s history. To tie up some _knots_.”

She managed to look rueful. “They’re friends. Honestly, with the two of them together, I think that’s probably better. That friendship, as strange as it is, is why there’s been no further incidents.”

“Yet.”

“I’m on record, sir, as having lodged serious objections prior to or during every encounter with Loki before we brought him on full-time. And with the operation surrounding the _Mortalus_ last year-”

“Which wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t kicked Earth around in the first place.”

She paused, collecting herself, and taking a moment to examine the constant sense of disbelief she had that it was now _normal_ to stick up for Loki. No less that she actually agreed with that stance. Her next words came with a tint of humor. “I thought we weren’t going to get into his background. That said, sir, Nova Corp gave us an assessment which I know you’ve read that suggests we would have seen that incursion regardless. If anything, the unusual side effect of Loki’s attack - which is _not_ excusing it - was making us better prepared. By forging the Avengers, by preparing us for the complexities of the galaxy around us, by getting us in the mindsets we needed when the Inhumans began to be revealed among us. Further, it made us ready for that final attack. That time, he was on _our_ side. It made the difference.”

Mace let the chair rock back and forth a few times, studying May in silence.

She considered, then let him have the ‘crack’ he thought he was looking for. “At worst, Phil’s stealing a chance to hit the road with a friend, while still doing the job he loves. He hasn’t been able to do that in several years, a freedom he hasn’t had since Fury left him in charge. He’s never been anything but loyal. He wants to put a couple cheeseburgers on the per diem, clear some paperwork as he goes, what’s the issue?”

Mace sighed. She knew she’d won this skirmish by the way the sound of it dragged through the air. “We do still have major problems here and abroad he could be focusing on.”

“He knows that. He’ll back soon, and doubly ready to take them on.”

He looked away, frowning. “I hope so. We’ll be keeping an eye out.” He looked back, nodding in a dismissal. “Thank you for your time, Agent May.”

She bobbed her head and let herself out the door.

. . .

May waited until she was three halls away and in a dead spot from most onsite automated observation before taking a pause to look up at the bland ceiling, her face tightening almost imperceptibly. In her mind, her eyes were rolling as hard as they metaphorically could. _Phil, you owe me big time for that one. I don’t mind covering your ass, but I do mind getting caught out by the new director this early in his term._

_Do not cause too much trouble out there. Mace is watching more closely than you think, so you’d best be serious about whatever the hell it is this secret mission of yours is about. Very serious._

_. . ._

“Is this, by some unpleasant miracle, the same vehicle we were just using?” Loki prodded the dark grey plastic glove box with a pale finger as he started to climb in.

It was a good question. Same outdated boxy make and model, same somehow depressing generic black, same industrially smelly interior. However: “License plate is different.” Phil looked over the steering wheel, across the vast parking lot of cars glinting in the dingy evening light. The Arizona sun was setting, and somewhere in the flat depths of it was an unmarked government-owned scientific facility that, according to their end of the paperwork, should have been abandoned a decade ago. He had a different theory, based on some public financials they were able to scour piecemeal via bad airplane internet. “But I’m not gonna check the VIN because I don’t want to know for sure. Maybe it is. Maybe there’s some sort of awful government car singularity. There’s always the one anonymous-looking crappy vehicle that doesn’t even have Bluetooth, and it’s everywhere a field agent needs to be.”

“That’s _very_ deep, Coulson.” Loki slammed the door with a touch more force than required, rocking the vehicle. “Regardless. I hated its last iteration. I am instantly vexed with this one.”

“You and me both.” Coulson leaned back to be sure he was clear to hit the reverse, starting to pull out of the parking spot carefully. Then he slammed on the brakes with a brief and not-at-all-PG selection of choice language when another crappy vehicle zoomed up the aisle behind him at about 50 mph. He shook his head before trying again, now moving even more slowly. “It’s a _parking lot_ , you _jackass_.”

“Could start this all properly by dragging the idiot out of the driver’s window and beating on them,” said Loki, gesturing up the aisle with one of those unpleasantly cheerful, fangy smiles. “Look, he’s not gone yet, I could boot his rear tires from here with a snap of my fingers.”

“Don’t.” It came through gritted teeth. “Don’t be helpful.”

“Aw.” Loki lounged in the passenger seat, clicked his tongue once, then went on for extra cheekiness. It was not in him to resist the occasional chance to be a deliberate pain in the ass, even among friends. “You’re going to want to take the right lane onto the freeway. Or is that too helpful again?”

Coulson took in a long, slow breath, then let it out. _Are we having fun yet?_ warred sarcastically in his mind with the dour truth. _Bringing him is always_ your _idea._ That truth sounded a lot like it was in May’s voice, and also, he felt somehow as if she was pissed at him right then. He tightened his grip on the wheel. “Okay.”

“The 51 will eventually get you to 101, at which point you can head for the northern route on 17, whereup-“

“Got it. Thank you.”

“No trouble at all,” Loki said, gaily.

. . .

“Why does it look more like a one-percenter biker bar than a shut down science lab?” Coulson tried to hand the binoculars to Loki, who waved them off. Coulson looked at him. Loki was squinting, but he was apparently seeing the situation laid out underneath a handful of dimly flickering parking lot lights just fine without them. “I’m counting ten choppers and another fourteen off-the-rack Harleys. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t forget the van off to the side, that doesn’t look out of place at all.” Loki glanced at him as he fumbled with the binocs again. It was dark now, edging close to midnight. For his part, he shifted comfortably on the low stones while keeping his fingers moving. They weren’t invisible, but he was weaving an easy camouflage layer out of the starlight for a little insurance on their part. “See it there, almost entirely behind the building on the right? Clean, white, very plain. Not easily visible from the road. Not likely it’s been sitting here abandoned with the rest of the place.”

“Got it.” It was just as described. Phil frowned. A stray shadow made it look like the back end wasn’t closed all the way, one half of the double-doors jimmied off about an inch. Shut, but not locked. Otherwise, it looked like a flowers-by-phone or other delivery van. About as nondescript as their own crappy car, which struck him as just as suspicious in its own way. “AA meeting?”

“Thinking not.”

“Okay.” Phil pulled the binoculars away from his face, calculating. Twenty-four people as a given, plus whatever unknown quantity had arrived via the van. “So. This place should have definitely been shut down, isn’t. It’s a place that specialized in advanced, off the books genetics for us, one of Howard Stark’s old outfits. It got killed by a small round of budget cuts and lack of progress over a decade before we knew more about Kree tampering…”

“Ask me, parking lot mostly doesn’t look ten years abandoned. Some of it does, here again closer to the road, but closer to the building is fair well kept.”

“Yeah, point.” Phil looked at him. “Can you cover us with that camo trick while we go take a look at whatever’s in the van? I want to get an idea of what it might be doing here.”

“Easily. More so if we dodge the lights a bit ’til we’re close. Just move at a slow walk, it’ll allow the weave to follow you.”

Phil got up, then paused. “We good from motion trackers and everything else?” “Mhm.” Loki didn’t sound concerned. Fine, good enough.

. . .

It _was_ stuck half open, that van. Phil looked around for a third time, then reached out with his synthetic hand and popped the back door open. True to its upkeeping, the door swung open silently, letting him get a full-on look at the cardboard crates partially filling the back. He reached out and pushed the lid off one to get a look at the contents.

Loki’s voice filtered up from behind him. “Maybe it _is_ a meeting.”

“Yeah,” said Coulson, not bothering to hide his disgust at the titles on the printed pamphlets. “In Georgia of the 1930’s.”

Loki took that in with a pause, then glanced properly over Coulson’s shoulder to read the words for himself. He wrinkled his nose at the tastelessness. Obvious anti-Inhuman propaganda, with a cover graphic suggesting in plain terms what to do with supporters and collaborators. Racist, paranoid bait. The small, stylized dog made the source abundantly clear. “Oh. _That’s_ nice.”

Coulson was silent.

“I’m a little confused. Hive, from the reports I read, did not care for these Watchdog fools. And why would he have, they would have killed him just the same if they’d had the means. But nonetheless, Hive was Hydra-“

“He was the personification of a very old aspect of Hydra. The Red Skull had other ideas when he started recreating _his_ form of Hydra out of whatever remained of the secret societies. Never struck me from the history books that he himself cared about the old trappings, although some of the crew picked it up for the showiness and maybe even to play up the old stories about what Hitler did for fun. Hunting the Ark of the Covenant and all that other stuff that makes for terrific movies. I don’t think Hive and Schmidt would have gotten along.” Coulson frowned. “They had similar goals, very similar in spots, but Schmidt was about a different kind of human superiority. The fascism of the Reich gave him a place to grow his ideas, and also a place to hide.”

Loki reached out and flicked a pamphlet open with a finger, then let it go after a quick skim of the unpleasant rhetoric inside. He frowned, realizing he was fumbling towards an unexpected parallel. “It’s not merely just about the racism with them, is it? It’s about the seeming loss of power, of things changing. That’s what this is harnessing. Disenfranchised, hateful people looking for a way to lash back at something they can’t actually stop.”

“You never ask much about this angle of the work.”

“I’m quite aware my assault on New York was a flashpoint for humanity in multiple ways, no few of them harmful. I don’t particularly find joy in that fact, which I suppose is moving upward from my former pure apathy - if not abject hostility - on the topic.” His voice was dry with some understatement.

“Empathy sucks, huh?”

Loki snorted, then looked away and became quiet. “It’s similar to what Asgard did to the Jotun over the centuries. Conquering them wasn’t enough, it didn’t take away enough of their power. So they became _monsters_ instead, in all the tellings. That kept the warriors nicely rallied, and gave the children something to grow up to fear.” Quieter yet. “Their worth as a people was taken. That last bit of power.”

Coulson pulled the lid back onto the box without a word, knowing this was now all kinds of an iffy topic. Still, it struck him as an apt observation even if he didn’t know all the politics of it, and it also showed the long road it had taken before Loki acknowledged that old, painful issue. The alien was a bastard, but by God, he was fully their bastard now. He squinted, looking around inside the back of the van. “I’m gonna take a look up front, see if there’s any registration information or anything we can use.”

“Afterward?”

He moved up to the driver’s side, found the door similarly unlocked. Obviously the locals did not expect any intruders this far out of town - much less anyone like _them_. “We’re gonna move in, take a look at what’s actually going on inside.” He looked up at the rooftops and didn’t see any of the telltale signs of surveillance, human or machine. He thought of the boring warehouse they had tossed that solidly did not deserve any disproportionate retribution, and he thought of people rather a great deal like the Watchdogs, burning crosses on the lawns of frightened families. “But before we get to that, you’re gonna set the van on fire for me, just on general principle.”

“And the love of vengeful property damage.” The creepy cheerfulness was returning.

Phil reached all the way in to pop the glove compartment to see whatever info might be in there. Maybe it wasn’t right, nor moral to think like that. His gaze went back to the boxes. All stuff intended to rally up a base, get them excited to hate others for the crime of being different. Of being someone, _something_ other. He decided, in circumstances like this one, he was sometimes okay with not being completely right. “Yeah, sure. That too.”


	8. The Chicago Way

It used to be a cafeteria where scientists gathered and ate crusty day-old pastries, and where they put pre-caffeinated water in the machine to see if doing so would add an appreciable amount of boost to the cheap coffee the corporation bought in industrial sized metal tins. It used to be filled with the low hum of labbies cranking and moaning and sharing obscure math jokes, and more than one ribald crack from biology specialists about the ‘sneaky fuckers’ hypothesis. Tables were stacked up in corners, forgotten and out of the way. The appliances had been neatly packed off ages ago, and most of the cabinets were left open to show their emptiness and the thickening layer of dust.

And yet rows of old brown-painted steel folding chairs filled the broad space, scratching black streaks of rubber across the cheap linoleum floor. Many of them creaked under their new cargo. No longer dingy lab coats and turtlenecks and the ugly sweaters favored by people working in the cold rooms - these newer occupants wore denim and leather and old tees with logos in varying degrees of public decency. Tattoos were visible, anti-Inhuman logos, Watchdog symbols, the number 88 on several wrists. They smelled like motor oil and bottled anger. More than a few had pale, shaved bald heads and thick beards, and all of them were looking at the far end of the room, where a man in a neat dark suit paced with slow, almost military precision.

He talked in much the same manner, continuing on from some prior thought in a clipped accent that hid his origins. “The problem, of course, is that we are not recognized any longer for our achievements or our strength on the world stage. We are fast becoming the _minority_ , ladies and gentlemen. Our natural superiority is being pressed aside for these lesser genetic mutations, these aberrations that dilute what it means to be _human_.”

A low murmur of approval followed that.

“Biodiversity is not a new science, and here in this temple to such science I must remind you of how important a tool it has been in understanding the code of what makes us what we are.”

. . .

“Bull.” Coulson’s eyes narrowed further where he was watching the gathering from a monitor at the security station the next floor up. Loki glanced back, ensuring that the pair of legs visible behind the desk had not started moving again. It wasn’t likely, but he was making certain. Coulson had given the man one hell of a knock, a single swift whack that had gotten his own eyebrow to arch in contemplation. His human friend was becoming visibly, unusually riled. “All of this is total bull. Racist, unscientific, and one hundred percent complete bull.”

. . .

“Of course, science alone doesn’t tell you what you need to know to fight back. It’s a tool, yes, an important and critical one in the right hands. And our hands are the right ones, and we are here to remind you to look for the ways in which you can help the struggle.”

Among the crowd, a few arms began to raise with chilling familiarity. The murmuring grew.

“We will fight back, my friends. The days will come when our leaders will rise to power once more, to lead us to that stronger, superior future that we are owed.”

The murmuring became clearer, peppered with more than one low-voiced and dedicated _heil_ from those pale, bare heads.

The man in the neatly tailored suit smiled, raising both his hands for order. And then, with a knowing look, let one arm drop in favor of the other’s rise to match. That got the crowd cheering outright.

. . .

Coulson looked away for a moment, sounding absurdly calm. “I’m honestly gonna barf. This is how they’re processing full radicalization of the new anti-Inhuman supremacist movements, creating a full organization system. This isn’t just the scared street hate any more, a few fringe jackoffs ganging up and dragging people out to stomp, which was bad enough. They’re bringing ‘em out quietly to these places, filling their heads with the good old days crap, and letting ‘em out once they’re nice and warped to push others to join or get beaten. It’s how it starts. It’s how it started in the 20’s and 30’s, in the beer halls and the private houses while other people positioned themselves to take power under the new chancellor.”

Loki stayed quiet, looking at him and not the speaker in the suit. It was not the right move, for once. Coulson’s deathly peaceful face turned towards him, showing the eyes had gone red hot looking for some validation of that anger. He considered that, feeling an odd tremble of concern. The human was desperately _furious_ , a thing he had rarely ever seen in his friend. He leaned back and knuckled the security console he had accessed so they could listen in on this grotesque little cafeteria putsch. “There’s an unusual amount of energy coming from some of the underground floors. I think there’s some active work going on down there in the old labs. A double purpose to this site. Ought investigate that, too.”

Coulson took that, glancing at the floor with his face still drawn tight. “Yeah.”

Loki spoke with care, a tone that might be used when conversing with genies being brought out of bottles. Violence came easy to him, but in this realm of the Nine, it had to be asked for. He knew he needed to make that clear. “What do you wish to do?”

Coulson went back to watching the man in the suit pace, still spouting careful, educated-sounding rhetoric, all of it designed and shaped for singular hateful purpose. Arms raised and lowered in enthusiastic rhythm; a revival church meeting in a fascist sector of Hell. “Do you know what ‘The Chicago Way’ is?”

“Mm,” came the negative response, bemused.

“30’s again. Well, 1929. A federal agent named Elliot Ness gets tasked with the job of bringing Al Capone to justice. Now, Capone has no rules. He thrives on creating corruption. He gets away with all his contraband and his murders despite the system, because he knows how to buy people, and because he knows the honest cops have a line they won’t cross, no matter what.

“So Elliot has to figure out a new method of nailing this guy Capone. He wants to stay honest, of course. Incorruptible. And over time he forges together a small group of cops and agents to do it and stay within that need to work for justice, and also be unable to be swayed by Capone’s bribery - they became the ‘Untouchables.’ And they have to redraw where that line is, so they can bring justice against these gangsters. They have to make hard decisions about what they’re willing to do while remaining moral, best they can. Very famous story here in the US, we made a bunch of movies about it. The best one’s got Connery and Costner in it, which as far as I know is where we get that bit about the Chicago Way.”

“Yes, very well, so what _is_ it?”

Coulson lifted his chin as the Nazi salute began to flutter through the cafeteria again. He thought about what these beliefs would ultimately do to his friends, given a chance. To Daisy. To Yo-Yo. There was no question in his mind that some of these Watchdogs and neo-Nazis present had already hurt others. There was a hardness in some of the faces, the stolid mask of men who acted with hate and had no doubts about what they did. No few of the tats visible on necks and wrists suggested more. “It’s simple escalation. ‘ _He pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue._ ’”

Loki leaned back in the cheap and plasticky chair, making it squeak. It didn’t draw the attention he wanted. The man was still fixated on the meeting, a single-track lane of distaste and anger connecting him with the crowd. “I want you to be extremely clear, Coulson. There are close to forty people in that cafeteria, all told.”

“Can we take them?”

Loki licked his lips, trying to find a delicate way to put this before giving up and remaining with simple clarity instead. “You were there, that day Thanos dropped me onto your world like a weapon incarnate to gain what he believed was his. I tore apart that secret facility as you watched. Just me, despite dozens of your trained agents immediately mobilizing to its defense. Despite a man who became an Avenger, despite Fury’s cleverness and steadfast way of battle. And I was not… at my best, then.” He inclined his head slightly when Coulson finally looked at him. “I have been heavily restrained in my actions since, out of need and mutually earned respect. I often do the job I chose within more… _human_ limits. And I am not Thor, but like him, I was trained by king’s men since I could walk. I have ever held both blade and spell. If you request it, I can walk into that room and annihilate every single one of them without so much as wrinkling my tie."

He took a breath, then finished his warning. "But you have to _ask_.”

Coulson studied him. The look on his face was that of a man troubled by the vivid reminder of what he was - and what he had once been.

“Where is _your_ line, now, if you feel these men below are small cogs in this vast old machine of hate?”

Coulson looked back at the cafeteria, startled momentarily out of his rage. It was one thing, the veil of anger he felt at seeing so plainly what Captain America had fought against coming back to life. It was another to say _yes, we are at war._ Where was the line?

He thought as the Watchdogs and other supremacists continued to rally, trying to find his own place against that question. “I want to talk to that suit wearing jackass. And I want to investigate the floors below.”

“And the rest of this hateful little coterie?”

Even when furious, Coulson tended towards fairness and looking for the best in others. Not always - his flat-out rage-fueled fatal strike against Grant Ward proved that - but he _tried_. That fairness had brought Loki around, despite all odds… but it hadn’t pulled Ward in from the cold. He sighed, the sound of it soft in the dusty air. He wanted to hope for the best in people. There were still civilians in that crowd, some of them. Given time, some might change their mind. “If they run, let them. But don’t aim to kill unless you think you have to, if one of us is at risk.” He laughed once, oddly mirthless. Anger still had a hook in. They weren’t in the middle of a crime, down there. They were in the middle of excusing all such hate crimes, past and future. Because they believed in the rightness of their hate. But. “I’m not on the other side of that line yet.”

“Yet.” Loki stressed the single syllable, careful.

“Yet.”

Loki rose from the cheap seat like a cat, one hand absently smoothing his dark silk tie into place. He smiled, an easygoing enough expression and yet as ever full of sharp white teeth. “Let’s go _question_ your little fool, then.”

. . .

Coulson let Loki take the lead, the anger coming back and touched with not a little morbid curiosity about how the first strike from the alien was going to look. He remained three long steps behind, his icer weapon set to less-lethal, a tactical baton ready at his waist if he felt he needed a little oomph in the hand-to-hand department. Seldom did. Regular training with May and being ‘gifted’ with a new hand that registered pain as little more than a diagnostic error covered most of his needs when things got up close and personal.

And then there was the deceptively slender beef gate stalking with creepy elegance in front of him.

The double doors to the cafeteria swung open with a flick of Loki’s finger through the dusty, still air. There were four burly-looking men seated in the furthest back row of the meeting, closest to those doors. Phil saw one wrapped in an old flannel jacket glance back at the motion, then do a double-take at what looked to them, no doubt, like a dandy in a too-fine suit and a much shrimpier older dude bringing up the rear. Flannel grunted in surprise, causing the other three biker bros to look back, coming up out of their seats like flesh golems. “Feds,” blurted one of them with the conviction of a sovereign citizen holding a poorly abridged copy of the Bill of Rights in his pocket. Well, thought Coulson, they weren’t exactly wrong.

Startled rustling began to fill the rest of the room as they realized the invasion happening among them.

With a laugh, one of the back row brawlers immediately drove for Loki, barreling with his head down and his arms ready in a linebacker’s Monday best. He slammed into Loki with a broken _oof,_ the arms failing to reach around for the combatant’s follow-up bear hug. He had been prepared for a very different kind of opponent, and when his head collided with the alien’s sturdier chest, his heavily-tattooed neck contorted out of joint, choking him. With a gurgle, he slumped to the floor.

Loki looked down at the human with bemused serenity, gauging whether his assailant would live and deciding it was a solid _probably_ before promptly forgetting about his existence. He himself hadn’t been so much as rocked a centimeter off his heels.

The second burly figure, obviously not absorbing the tacit lesson his buddy had just had impressed on him, swung high for the pale cheek. Loki caught the hand the way a fisherman might easily snap a beer tossed his way, looking first at the clenched fist, then at the man who had thrown it. He smiled - feral, bright, and not at all pleasant. Then he shoved with a fraction of his strength and kept smiling as the man flew across the room to slam bodily into the wall. They seemed like fangs, those white teeth, the jackal let out to run once more.

Just for show, really. But it could be pleasant for that tamed old beast to race free.

The sound of the man’s skull colliding with plaster and wood was the cue for all hell to break loose. The infuriated shout came from the group at the front of the room as Loki casually flung another idiot out of his way, then another, implacably moving forward towards the man in a suit who watched him approach with a transfixed expression on his face. More were knotting up in his path, defiant. “It’s an Inhuman!”

“Oh, no,” said Loki, still grinning as he dislocated the arm of a man who thought he might pretend to run by the pair but was actually angling around to try for a choke hold. Loki stepped over the moaning figure as Coulson realized he himself was blinking rapidly at the sheer efficiency of what he’d just set loose. Loki’s next words came with the vengeful low rattle of gravel, calculated to terrify. “I’m _much_ worse than that.”

In an attempt to feel relevant behind the walking wrecking ball, Coulson raised his icer to pop a guy on the approach in the arm with a disarming shot. The folded up metal chair that had been readying for a mighty - but likely futile - whack towards Loki’s sleek black head fell with a clatter. The man staggered away with a shout, turning towards him with newly targeted anger.

Two steps towards him as Coulson reached for the stick at his waist - and then that slender, bone-white hand popped out and grabbed the wounded man by the throat, tossing him lightly towards the other wall. He didn’t stop moving, and he didn’t look back to be sure Phil was all right. There was no need. No one was getting through the black wall of his offense without his express permission. There were now well over a dozen figures scattered and in pain to prove this.

The remaining crowd began to realize this, getting serious as they shuffled forward to create a blockade between them and the still-transfixed man in the suit. Phil lined up neatly behind Loki on reflex at the sound of a shotgun cocking into readiness somewhere in the knot. He saw the sawed, double-barreled muzzle peek out of the group, ducking back and bracing for his ears to ring. If needed, he could pop the shield projection hidden in his wrist. Too much gun for this room, and just enough metal in the walls for echo and ricochet. It would probably be okay. Still - “Loki!”

Loki put up a hand half a second before the shot came. Light burst high across his chest, hot fire sparks, and he waved it all away like a summer’s breeze. His suit remained magically untouched. Phil’s ears, to his blank surprise, were not ringing.

In the crowd, the muzzle of the gun wavered and then dropped as its handler frantically dug for a reload. Loki lunged into the mass as if he were an obsidian spear and dragged the armed one out, ignoring the flurry of hands that tried to grasp for him, all of them catching air like slick oil instead. The shotgun was now in Loki’s hands, its owner tumbled across the floor and flinging his own up to ward off the shot. Instead, Loki effortlessly snapped the wood-bound weapon in two and flung its remains aside. Shotgun-man’s eyes grew wide as dollar coins. A second later, this one _did_ run - scrabbling up and charging past Coulson like a kid chased from a candy store. Phil watched him go, unable to tell if he was impressed or having some kind of awful 2012 acid flashback.

The dam broken, a handful more would-be Nazi recruits broke ranks and followed the disarmed fighter out the door at equally high speeds. The rest got angrier, faces reddening. Phil took two shots into the floor to break them up, but they saw instinctively that he wasn’t trying to be a threat. For a moment they forgot the actual danger looming over them and began to shift like a wave trying to get around Loki and figure out a way to take their collective hurt out on him instead.

A wall of solid blue ice cut that possibility down, all but ending the rest of the fight entirely as a couple of the attackers squeaked in sharp surprise at the way it formed around them. They could run or they could be frozen in, but they weren’t getting to the pair of agents. Shards of that ice cracked and creaked in the warm, dusty air, echoing the sounds of more footsteps leaving. For whatever reason, that act of magic got the man in the suit going again. He jerked, turning away from his makeshift stage performance and facing the swinging doors that filled the far right corner.

Coulson came around Loki’s other side to get a clear shot on the leg, only to find he didn’t need to try. The black javelin moved again, horrifically quick, and a moment later the man in the suit was lifted off his feet and pinned to the wall by a single white hand. Alive. And visibly terrified.

Loki glanced over his shoulder to chivvy Coulson into getting to his part, and in his face Coulson saw complete calm and rationality. He’d torn up the crowd with near-silent efficiency, but done so still mostly within the limits he’d set himself at for the last several years. Coulson let the relief hit his spine, then walked up past a melting stalagmite with a startled glance at it. The face disappeared again, doubtlessly focusing on the man with that sharp grey-green stare.

Loki silently tossed him the wallet he’d lifted at some point as the man looked between them with eyes frozen wide, grimacing and occasionally trying to work at the hand holding him in place. He wasn’t making so much as a dent. Coulson flipped it open to find a commercial driver’s license. Winderfield, James. Not a name he could place. Riffling through showed little else. A few singles, the usual dirt of an old wallet. He tore at the stitching for completeness’s sake, ensuring there were no hidden compartments. Then he looked Winderfield dead in the eye and let the wallet drop from his hand. “Who are you answering to?”

The eyes got wider, but that was the only answer he got.

“Okay. What’s operating below this floor?”

It would have been silence, but Winderfield gurgled slightly despite himself.

“I can tear his arm off if it would help,” said Loki. “Really, he only needs one. You’ve proven it.”

The gurgling got a little louder at that.

Coulson had to fight a morbid giggle. “You’re not accidentally choking him out, are you?”

Loki leaned back about half an inch, checking. “He’s a mite winded, I figure, but he shouldn’t be dying.” The next came in a smooth drawl. “ _Yet_.”

The gurgle gained a distinct whine. The hands came up again to slap at the steel grip holding him in place, Winderfield struggling his hardest yet. He gave at least one good wriggle, nearly contorting his neck. “Oh,” said Loki with absurd cheer. He reached up with his free hand and tore something free. “Here’s something that might be useful.”

Coulson caught the keycard as it came flying over the shoulder, looking at the snapped red cord that had originally held it in a loop. The keycard itself was plain white on one side, with the back showing the black barcode running across it… and a tiny Hydra logo in the corner. Next to it was an even smaller black swastika. “Oh come on. You go to all this trouble to hide your gig, but then you go and do this.”

Loki thudded the man against the wall as if for emphasis. “I’ve seen what you get up to, given artistic license. _You_ don’t have the right to talk subtlety.”

“Not the first to rip me on that.” Coulson leaned forward to peek over the tall black shoulder, looking directly into Winderfield’s face. “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to say? You seemed to have loads on your mind when you had control of the room.”

Winderfield took in a gasp. “We… will be supreme…” Loki shook him, making the next vibrate. “Hail… Hy-“

Loki sharply thunked the man’s skull against the wall, once, letting the body slide to the ground when Winderfield was unconscious. “Oh, forget it.”

Coulson looked at the zonked man with disbelief. “I could have gotten a little more out of him!”

“Yes, and what? Hydra’s chip dip recipe? Gods, he’s tooling around with a room full of sycophants whenever possible, probably twice weekly and once on Sunday to keep his spine stiffened. He’s a hardliner, if he’s still got anything with their stupid logo at this late date. Their kind rarely offer anything useful. Too loyal to think in an interesting way.” Loki sniffed and stepped away from Winderfield, ignoring Coulson’s minor irritation. “I assume the card will get us into the lower floors without incident.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Coulson flapped the card at him, mock-chiding.

Loki looked at him, wry. “Then I get us in there _with_ incident, obviously.”


	9. The Awkward Small Talk Phase

The card key worked on the elevator without actual incident, causing Loki a brief but visible moment of disappointment. The buttons showed significant wear on the one indicating the bottom floor, B3, as compared to the rest. “You know,” said Loki as Phil slapped idly at the button a handful of times until it complied. The elevator kicked into slow motion. “This is rather reminding me a touch of the Captain’s tale of Ms. Carter, as I relayed to you.”

“Crappy guards on the entry floor, locked underground lair, probable genetic experiment weirdness going on inside. Yeah, I can see it, sorta. The bare bones of the situation.” Phil watched Loki sway his weight seemingly in time to the hauntingly underwhelming elevator music version of George Michael’s _Careless Whisper_ , fairly sure it was a coincidence. “We set a van on fire, though. That was a little different.”

“ _I_ set the van on fire. _You_ watched. And, I add, you grinned.”

“I did not grin.”

“You smiled, then, and don’t dare call me a liar here. A child at his birthday revels while the unloved neighbor’s house burns down. Half expected you to go and nip a bag of marshmallows out of that atrocious rental. I don’t often see this sort of fury from you.” The words were idle banter but, buried in them, Coulson realized he was hearing a hint of actual concern. The once-rampaging alien was subtly reminding _him_ to reflect on his decisions before going all the way off.

_Okay_ , he thought. _That happened_. “Didn’t pack any.”

“Map said there was one of those miserable Target stores up a few miles.” The elevator dinged for their destination. Loki arched an eyebrow at the reveal of an empty hall before him, about as excitingly decorated and painted the same dull near-white as the entry floor. “Could fix the matter.”

“Maybe for the next burned-out van.”

“Oh, so we expect another one?” Still with that mild caution buried under the surface of his voice as he stepped out, scanning the area with a pan of his head. “And here I thought Miss Johnson was jesting with me when she discussed pacing one’s self when tossing Nazis around.”

“She said _what_?”

“She indicated general support for the endeavor on principle, and suggested the former statement particularly in case there were a lot of such Nazis. _Thoroughness_ seemed to be the watchword. I felt similar from Rogers. There are some… strong feelings about these particular fools.”

“Yeah.” It came out non-committal, by way of savage understatement. There was also the bit he didn’t want to bring up, that he’d read about on some of the older after-reports from-

“Had an old man refer to me as one of these once. Expect you recall that from the Stuttgart papers. Didn’t make much of an impression at the time, questions of scope and scale.” _Yeah. That._ Loki was moving down the hall ahead of him now, idly checking doors with a wave of his hand as he walked. “I’m not going to pretend I’m suddenly perfectly empathetic and understand the totality of the matter as it pertains to human history, Coulson, but I _have_ since grasped that it was damned well far from a compliment. I understand it matters greatly to you and the rest.”

“It’s something,” Phil managed. He reached out and opened the door to a darkened bloodwork lab. Paper bibs and a handful of colorful rubbery tourniquets sat in a pile on the dusty chair. There was nothing else.

Loki’s voice floated back to him, droll as he continued to look for complications laying in wait ahead. “Oh, so we’ve finally made it ‘round to the awkward small talk phase of our trip. ‘ _Oh yeah, remember back when you were an invading would-be overlord with passing similarity to the fascists that’ve got me all pissed off right now? Good times_.’”

Coulson shut the door. “I don’t sound like that.” He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing at Loki’s back. “Do I?”

“Not so much. I’m exaggerating for effect. It’s very quiet down here despite the energy readings above. I mislike it.”

“Is this bothering you?”

“What?” Loki shut another door and looked back at him, faux-innocent. “Haring off into the world, hunting the physical rebirth of yon Nazi Party via this abomination’s womb forged of Hydra’s cold corpse at your side and with your beloved Captain’s blessing, wholly aware that I’m the wrong person to help spearhead something like this and quite possibly privately concerned that other and greater Gods mayhap do exist and might toast me for the sheer ludicrous hypocrisy of it all?” He grinned, turning manic. “Not in the least.”

“Loki-”

He shrugged off whatever Phil was going to say next, light as a cat. “If you’re going to upset such hidden outer powers, you might as well go all the way with bells a-jingling. Makes a better story.” Then he jerked a thumb down towards an approaching intersection. “Do you hear that hum now? Left at the junction, I think.”

He did, vaguely. Low and thrumming electric. The core of the power grid had to be under the floor somewhere close, running whatever was going on down here and tossing out just enough juice so that the regular crowd could read the latest from their crappy propaganda pamphlets without squinting. “You got any theories about what’s down here?”

“Doubt it’s festive. Come on, let’s sort it all out and be done with this place. I hate these semi-abandoned underground ex-SHIELD facilities, nothing good ever happens in them.”

. . .

“Sample 4493, test is clear.” Dave the lab tech muttered the words just loud enough for the mic in his workstation computer to hear and record the rote statement. He moved on to the next result with a tap of the mouse, taking in the visual information and making the exact same conclusion. “Sample 4494, test is clear.” And again, until he broke Test 4500 and pretended the dull readouts he was studying flared the appropriate milestone fireworks instead. He leaned back against the old swivel chair he was slouched in and rubbed his eyes, the thing itself some mid-80’s indestructible monstrosity he’d found in a storage excursion last year. He scratched at his chest under the mostly blank white ID card pinned to his coat. “Hey, Monty, what do you want to go out and get for breakfast today?”

The disembodied voice of Monty, the old guy in the only other occupied cube in this room, floated towards him through the darkness. Only their two cubes were ever lit. The number of times Dave had whacked an ankle on a cube corner fumbling towards his station on the regular was high. Very high. “I want a box of deep fried chicken nuggets the size of my ass, and a crisp romaine salad with a light wine vinaigrette from a French _boulangerie_.”

“ _Boulangeries_ sell bread, asshole, not salads.”

“We’re playing pretend, Dave. In my mind, I’m up Raquel Welch’s ass in 1967, with a french baguette big enough to kill God gripped in my sweaty hand, and I’ve got a crispy fresh salad and some chicken nuggets waiting for me on the marble tabletop previously occupied by the Pope’s sweaty butt.”

Dave started to honk ugly, wild laughter. He usually only physically saw Monty for five seconds every late evening as the lone security guard checked them into the creepy place for the midnight shift, the pair of them otherwise locked into a brain-meltingly mundane routine for ridiculously good money. He checked glucose and mineral readings on every test sample that headed his way, and Monty, he guessed based on a few scraps of paper left around once or twice, was doing plasma protein counts.

If they ever actually discussed their work, bye-bye ridiculously good money. The job was crap for his mental health, but having enough scratch to go berserk on the town every weekend helped. So they didn’t talk about that. Nor about any irregularities that might pop in the system or in the morning messages. But the stupid banter kept them both sane in the cubes, meanwhile. Monty was good for vulgar, hearty additions to almost any statement.

Dave suspected just based on the decent but not high-tech IT system that there might be one other guy down the hall maintaining it, but if so, he was on an alternate shift. Probably saw actually got to see daylight instead of sleeping through it, lucky bastard. And what happened in the day around the place? No clue. “I just want a burger. A really, really crappy one.”

Monty didn’t add anything to that, for a wonder. Dave had been hoping for a good, gross crack about the digestive aftereffects of a bag of White Castle sliders. The man had a gift for those. Dave kept filling the silence, searching for the other guy in it. “I got two yogurts and a bagel in the bag today. Not even a good bagel. By the time I get out of here and take a nap, the store only has that asiago crap left in the bakery. Wind up with the bagged ones every damn time. I really need to start going on the weekend, pretend to be a normal person.”

Still nothing. Maybe the old guy had wandered to the jakes. He moved pretty quietly sometimes. Dave shrugged, assuming that was it, and resumed mindlessly checking what could have been the same goddamn test result over and over, muttering his report into his machine.

A deeper shadow passed over him, then stayed.

Dave, the sad lab tech with a crappy job signed up for out of a batch of random Arizona Craigslist ads, looked up into a bone white face looming out of the darkness that enveloped his cube. Gray-green eyes glinted in the marble mask with terrifying sharpness.

“Hi!” chirped the demon.

Dave screamed his way up the vocal scale and scrabbled his keyboard into his fumbling hands to try and wield it like a lumber plank in his defense, teetering the heavy old CRT monitor and causing it to crash to its side as the cord between the two yanked itself free.

It could have gone better for Dave.

. . .

Loki reared his head back, surprised, as the man in the lab coat abruptly dropped the keyboard and began to claw at his chest instead. “I think he’s having a medical event,” he said.

“What did you do?” Coulson popped up next to him, peering over the particleboard wall of the cube at the gasping technician. A moment later, he had his hands dug under the man’s pits and was helping him to the ground. The old guy hadn’t been anywhere near _that_ dramatic of a grab in comparison. The pair had snagged him on the way to a vending machine, locking him into a side room for questioning once they’d secured the small cube farm and its remaining occupant.

“Scared him half to death, I thought. Unfortunately, I may have scared him whole to death.” Loki looked up, then pinpointed the rest area. “Be right back.”

He returned with the first aid kit and a plastic glass of water as Coulson was still checking the guy’s heart rate. “Is it cardiac? I found aspirin. I read a thing about that once.”

The guy was heaving for air, and his skin was ice cold. Coulson patted him, at a loss of what else to do. He reached up for the water, at least. “Honestly, I think you just threw him into the worst panic attack of his life.”

“Feels… like a heart attack.” The tech gasped the words as he fumbled towards the glass being offered. His face was drained of blood.

“Yeah, they do that. The real good ones.” Coulson settled himself on the ground, pulling himself into a cross-legged position. He reached out to snap free the keycard on the guy’s chest, noticing that this one had no logos of any kind on its back and only that black bar on the front. That told him a few things, and resolutely popped the lab guy into the non-combatant category. “Okay, just look at me for a few and breathe.”

The lab tech absolutely did not do that, continuing to shake, struggle for air, and glancing with sheer terror at Loki, who looked calmly back. “I think I’m having a flashback,” said Loki, sounding bemused.

“Tell me about it.” Coulson snapped his fingers for attention, dragging the guy’s stare from the looming terror-stick back to him. “He’s not going to hurt you. Look at me. Breathe. Just… just kind of roll with it for a few. Lean into the panic. Focus on your breathing, and you’ll calm down. I mean, not immediately. But you will. Breathe in. Feel it. Focus on it. Breathe out. Tell me your name.”

“Dave,” said the tech, shakily.

“Alright, Dave. The other guy from this room is fine. We locked him in a room and he’s probably kinda ticked at us, but he’s fine. Is there anyone else on this floor?”

Deep breath. “Maybe.”

“Okay. You don’t know.” Coulson watched him shake his head, then fly his eyes open wide again. “The lightheaded thing is normal. You’re fine, believe me. If I thought you were actually gonna pop, I got a heavy duty kit out on the other side of the lot, the creep moves real fast, and we’d keep you stable till EMS got here. I promise. Okay?”

Eyes flicked up towards Loki, still far too wide.

“ _Creep_?” asked Loki, visibly pretending to be wounded. The theatricality of it seemed to soothe the tech a very tiny bit.

“You’re not going to get hurt by us. I can already see you don’t know hardly anything about what you’re into. But we are investigating some trouble.” Coulson flapped the keycard. “You ever see any logos around for this place? Names. Anything?”

“N-no. All I do every day is check these blood samples for any abnormalities.”

“Other fellow did plasma, we note. Found some other systems running automated processes. It’s all compartmentalized now,” said Loki, sticking his hip against the side of the cubicle. He leaned down with a long arm and set the monitor back upright with a finger. “Causes fewer problems this way, no doubt. Loyalty via paycheck. Cheaper, really.”

“It’s a good paycheck.” Dave hicked his way through the words, not feeling vindicated by being right about Monty’s part of the job. “Paid off my student loans.”

“You work for Nazis, as it happens.” Loki dropped the bombshell on the guy with the cheerful candor of someone explaining to a small child what the shellac on their candy was made out of. Coulson twitched. ‘Helpful’ Loki was sometimes questionably effective. “Still good?”

“Uh…” Dave was pale again, wide eyes flickering between the two. He decided to stay fixated on Coulson, who was now rubbing at the headache growing rapidly behind his eyebrows. “I think there’s an IT guy in here. We get mail in the morning, batch sizes and some other technical crap. Someone strips them of all the sender info except for the in-house information, pretty much turns everything into plain text notes and adds local updates. I’ve never seen him, though.”

“Okay.” Coulson dropped his hand, mentally grabbing onto that information. “Sorry to tell you this, but you just lost your job.”

“Is he serious?”

“About the Nazi thing?” Coulson sighed. “Yeah, he is.”

“Shit.” Dave’s face fell. “Yeah, I lost my job.”

Coulson leaned back, then made a snap decision. “We locked the other guy in 223. Door’s got an external deadbolt. Grab him and get out of here.”

Dave scrambled upright, still visibly woozy as he found his balance. Then he got, with remarkable speed.

Coulson glared at Loki in the emptiness of the dark cube farm. “Why do you pick the crappiest moments to stop being subtle?”

Loki shrugged at him. “By my perspective, it was quite a good moment.”

“How the hell do you figure?”

“I enjoyed it more.”

Coulson started to get up, then rocked on his heels and blurted the question. “Are you like this on the road with everyone?”

“Essentially.” Loki smirked at his exasperated noise. “Don’t think you get special treatment just because you used to lead the place.”

. . .

 

“Well. We’re not questioning this one.” Loki held the door open with a finger, wrinkling his nose at the smell of death filling the cold air of the small server room. He could see the still figure slumped in the chair before a flickering system, picking out the details of the colored foam on his lips. “Poisoned himself.”

Coulson pushed past him, coughing once. “Terrific.”

“At least an hour down. By the look and smell of things, I think he got wind of what happened upstairs. Some signal, or a feed I didn’t spot in the security room.” Loki looked along the walls not seeing a camera hooked up. He moved in as Coulson started examining paper strewn across the room. He himself glided in, absently swiveling the body out of his way as he studied the monitor. “He tried to wipe the system, along with himself.”

“Did he succeed?”

“Mm. Left a mess. In more ways than one, obviously. Give me a moment.” Coulson heard him tapping idly around, then the unmistakeable chime of a reboot. “He was in a hurry, and possibly not as good at this as he thought. I expect for vulnerable tech they chose between competent anonymity and mindless loyalty, and they chose poorly.”

“Safe mode?”

“Safe mode.” Loki yawned, tapping again. A moment later he started thrumming his fingers on the desk as he thought. “That said… they’ve been mangling and destroying digital mail regularly. Can’t get at much of that. What I can get… that’s interesting… yes, they’re bouncing off a specific host to muddy the actual traceroute. No doubt that host is coded to further hide the routers used. Odd, they could have just run a damned VPN and wiped that instead. Fortunate for us, anyways. Perhaps their internet technician was cloned from the 40’s as well. Or is in fact operating off an outdated iPod, after all.” Loki lifted his chin, frowning. He didn’t elaborate on the odd remark. “I’ve found a deleted documents cache that I think I can recover.”

Coulson came over to look at the monitor with him. “Mails before editing?”

“Looks like it.” More tapping. A moment later, they were scrolling through a backup cache of emails, all within the last few weeks. Most were the batch-files bounced from somewhere, containing the digital files the two in the cubes had been working on. Another portion was the ever-present spam. And then - “Ah. Well. _That’s_ intriguing.”

“What the hell am I looking at?” Coulson frowned. “Is that code?”

“It looks like gibberish entirely.” Loki leaned back, sounding satisfied.

“How is that interesting?”

“Because it’s the sort of gibberish you might wind up with when trying to force a message through a secure system. Said system caused an automated scramble to prevent it getting out.” Loki arched an eyebrow, scrolling through the hundreds of emails until he found another. And another. All told, there were eight such mails recently. Now there were patterns he could see. “All eight bounced from that same point. Similarities in the sending code say it’s likely the same computer, and the rest tell me it’s probably the same author. _Someone_ was trying something silly. I’m at the limit of what I can do with this, however, including discovering where that route initiated.”

“What if we find the router?”

Loki shrugged. “Might well be possible to uncover the actual traceroute there. For most of these files, really. Miss Johnson left an entire suite of such tools behind that I can access.”

“And she taught you how to use them.”

“Please, Coulson.” Loki shot him a dour look. “It’s a Midgardian computer, not a crystallized semi-sentient vessel with a plasma bomb strapped to its ether-core in case of pirates.”

The headache was coming back. “Do I want to know?”

“About the time I ‘carjacked’ an experimental Kree brain-skiff so that Thor and I could sneak less than a dozen warriors behind the frontline when they decided to be charmingly hostile with us about seven hundred years ago? It’s not a very interesting story.” Loki ignored the look he got. “The router is located in a southeastern Colorado server farm. Not all that far from here.”

“Oh, God.” Phil saw it coming and closed his eyes.

“Mm. The location itself is in the middle of nowhere, but I think it’s piggybacking off of Cheyenne Mountain’s secondary external network.”

“Of course.” He flung his hands in the air. “Let’s just tool off in the car and hack into an internet line going to an active top secret military facility. Where, again, _we probably put it there_.”

“This was your idea of a good time, Coulson. Do you want to return that absolutely worthless pile of a car and go home?”

“No.”

“Then we go splice into their network, then get back into the absolute pile of a car and leave before unhappy men in camouflage come in much faster cars to ask us awkward questions about the matter. I don’t think you want to hang about and fight them, anyway, they’re technically on your side.” Loki stood up, then looked back down at the corpse, as if suddenly remembering it. He jerked a thumb at the body. “Do we do anything about this?”

“I’ll handle it.” Phil sighed. “You drive.”

“Do I have to do the speed limit?”

“If you go more than ten over, that car is going to fall apart.”

Loki grinned like liquid threat. “Not on _my_ watch, it won’t.”


	10. Limbo

“Sir?” The young man popped his arms into proper, stiff formation at the shift of the master’s head, the crispness of his uniform almost snapping in the cool air of the dark office. His accent was clean, almost but not quite the most formal form of an Englishman’s received pronunciation, loaded with the heavy tones of clipped Dutch. “We are monitoring a problem.”

The head didn’t move. The words came from the dark alone, the accent thicker in the low voice but also more refined in its enunciation. “Explain it.”

“There has been an interference logged at one of our satellite sites, sir. Specifically, we’ve lost contact with the biological lab in the western United States. A minor station, but nonetheless.” The young man watched the sleek white hair catch a single gleam of light that was blazing its way in between the closed blinds as the master turned. Beyond them, he saw the green bushes waving in a pleasant breeze. It was a beautiful day in the village, blue sky and fine temperatures. He could find no joy in that at the moment, not in the presence of their overseer. The sharp profile seemed to haunt him. “As per protocol, their systems were dumped offline. System Control is awake and monitoring from the home site. There should be little that’s recoverable onsite at the Arizona location, and nothing that leads here.”

“Do we know precisely what occurred? Does Control?”

“Not yet. We are nonetheless working to purge all other remaining online connections between us and the satellite location. The procedure will be final soon.” He paused, unsure if he should waste the master’s time with what might have been an unimportant detail, or if he should leave the matter until he knew more. He bit his lip. Better to annoy now than fail later. The penalties for failure were far more severe. “Our men have used this as cause to scan once more what went out daily, ensure there were no irregularities.”

“And if you are bringing this up to me, they found an irregularity.”

“A… small one, sir. A possibility of a message or two piggybacked into the network.” He swallowed, choosing his wording carefully both for his own sake and for the technicians. Shadows flashed, catching the wooden frames of the furniture, the gleam of old medals handed down by commanders long past. Somewhere among them, hidden but still present, was a signed plaque from their long-lost commander, Herr Schmidt. The master’s great-grandfather had fought well as a young man in the Second Boer War, and became a good friend to Schmidt much later, in the crucible of the Reich. He had become one of the first great heads of Schmidt’s Hydra in rapid time. The plaque was one of the Great Artifacts of the village, and yet it was frequently only for the master’s almost imperial sight. “They are unsure, but if so, it is a certainty that these items would have not made it past our security measures. They would be unusable data.”

“They think.”

“Ja, they do, sir.” The young man flushed at the informality seeping into his words, revealing his nervousness and possible impurity before the master. “Yes, sir.”

The head swiveled away again, the sun’s gleam flashing along his temple like lightning. With a rustle of fabric, the master leaned forward to snap open the blinds. A young child ran by outside followed by three others a moment later, white legs catching the sun. They were hurtling pellmell towards the smaller residences with their thatched roofs and clean Cape Dutch-style architecture along the west end of the village. The master snorted, pleased with what they had built slowly over the years. What came next seemed like a _non sequitur_. “Tell Control - do not purge the systems fully yet. And bring me the _boy_.”

The young man paused, unsure what he felt about the command. His eyes flickered, looking as if at the invisible trail the children outside had left in the sun. It might have been pity, deep inside him. He buried it and clicked his heels. “Right away, sir.”

. . .

Coulson stared at the gray felt ceiling of the car, beginning to understand its blandness on a spiritual level as a metaphor for limbo. Not even hold-music broke the silence that had been coming from his phone for most of the hour. He had to check occasionally to see if he was still connected. God help him, he was.

On the other side of his car window, scrub brush, asphalt, and stones whipped by at a cool ninety-odd miles an hour. And that was relatively slow for the moment. Loki had not only chosen to ignore the posted speed limit, but metaphorically exploded it out of, Coulson assumed, some private snit he had that the junk car was not secretly a more useful spaceship. Or something. In any case, the guy sure as hell had a lead foot.

Loki sounded mild enough, though, one hand lazily maintaining control of the wheel. It was probably a trap, that calmness. “That’s, what, forty minutes now you’re on hold?”

“It happens,” said Coulson, trying to be politic.

“It happens rather a lot, lately.” The car slalomed around a bend, pressing Coulson against the car door with surprising strength. He had a tingling full body image of the door falling off, and him with it. “Those utterly useful new security restrictions, I’m sure. They’re probably trying to decide if the relevant files are under puce or teal.”

If Loki got going on this again, he was going to start to hope for that door falling off on the next turn. Coulson went for the defuse. “I’m sure it’s nothing like that. Paperwork is paperwork. It’s always slow. They’re not really in a position for immediacy.”

“I’m sure there’s great value in all the extra security lodged like a frog in amidst daily routine just to lump it all up a bit further, however. Wouldn’t want an enemy agent to get to a field incident cover sheet too easily, get a glimpse of their secret logo. Heavens forfend it is discovered they use only _blue_ pens, to make copies slightly more difficult.” Phil saw teeth flash as Loki loaded and then shot the _coup de gras_ of his annoyance with SHIELD of late. “And I wager they’re still going to make you cover the roaming fees for the phone call out of pocket.”

“Loki, I swear to-“ He cut himself off as the phone sprang to life in his ear. “Yeah, hi, case file #42108?”

“ _Coulson_.”

Oh, God. It was the new Director himself taking over the line, not the paperwork gopher. Coulson found himself staring at the door handle, wondering how much it would hurt. The trick was to bundle up and hit the ground rolling. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, but at ninety mph, there was going to be some skid on his ass. No synthetic skin to protect him there, although maybe he should consider it. He tried to sound cheerful instead, digging himself into a mental bomb shelter. “Hey, Mace.”

For a moment, the car slowed to the legal speed limit. Then, realizing they probably hadn’t retasked a satellite for this or were doing much more than monitoring the tracking GPS installed in their phones, the car resumed its assault on the sound barrier. Otherwise, thankfully, Loki kept his mouth shut.

“ _How’s New Mexico?_ ”

“Kinda hot. We’re just passing through, really.” He looked up at the grey felt again, now trying to use it as a source of balance. “Probably gonna be hot where we’re going, too.” He tried to not think about the obvious grim joke lying under that.

“ _So, I guess the property fire out in Arizona wasn’t because it got kind of chilly last night._ ”

“Ah, no. No, that was a separate thing.”

“ _It made local news this morning, you know. Must be a slow day. Motorcycle club was meeting up according to the report, minding their own business at an old parking lot outside a defunct medical lab. Then someone set a van on fire and started a fight._ ”

“Well-“

“ _A big fight. The club says they got hit in the dark by a rival gang, had to be like twenty guys just boiling out of nowhere according to the story. But the other gang wasn’t armed, which I thought was a very interesting detail, Phil. Just twenty big ol’ dudes in the dark, throwing these harmless as a kitten one-percenters around like they were discs at the Greek Olympics. Very random. I saw a couple of videos online, these guys got hammered. One had the frozen bag of peas on his dislocated shoulder right there while he was being interviewed. Weird, right?_ ”

The car was slowing again. Coulson stayed conversational. “Oh, very. You know these biker clubs, though. It’s possible some beef sprang up. Happened in Texas just a few months back, they were sorting out that brawl for weeks.”

“ _I’m thinking it’s likelier that you threw your buddy at ‘em like a grenade with the pin out. Considering we owned the property from a while back, I can put a few theories together as to why. Let’s say I tied some knots together from a few threads left around. I guess my only question right now is, did you use an aim-and-flame on the van with a little gasoline to start, or did you set him up to do that, too?_ ”

The stupidest response in all the world flickered neon-bright into his mind, and then it came barreling out of his mouth. “He’s driving. You want to talk to him?”

Mace’s voice was dripping pure, unfiltered sarcasm. “ _You can put the phone on speaker if you want, Phil._ ”

The pale hand filled his view and gently plucked the phone from him. Then, in fact, Loki switched it to speaker mode and stuck it to the flimsy plastic holder on the dash. “Distracted driving is very dangerous, sir,” came the smoothly sardonic response. Phil realized he was staring dead ahead at the road, too dumbfounded by what he’d started to even feel horror. “I see it in all the American advertisements. I’m terribly shocked you’d even suggest it.”

“ _You sound like it._ ”

“I sublimate my more extreme emotions. It frightens humans less.” Phil looked at Loki. He was talking through his teeth, lips pulled back. The effect was decidedly not a smile.

_Oh, God_ , thought Phil.

“ _You want to give some input on what actually happened?_ ”

The boxy rental car swung around a sharp curve with the improbable elegance of a Viper. Phil heard something metallic and probably structurally vital creak in the undercarriage of the vehicle, and he began to sweat. Meanwhile, Loki’s drawl remained smooth as butter. “As previously filed, we’re on the road doing nothing more than clearing out some old loose ends of yon villainous Hydra. And as such things go since the beginning of time immemorial, sometimes those loose ends hit back. Coulson has been waiting patiently on the phone to file his final incidence reports on the matter currently in question, and of course the bits about the van are included in the package. All within protocol, especially as per the rules laid out within the field actions manual, subsections 49.3 through 52.4. And, I note, all the other actors in the incident, save one, and that one logged under separate incident header 993.71, already in the system, are alive.”

Coulson snapped his head around to stare at the side of Loki’s face. He got the briefest of glances back, along with a clear expression that said _Settle yourself. Of course I have all your nonsense memorized._ Then he resumed watching the road, just as calm as before.

“ _And going forward?_ ” Mace sounded cautious, suddenly faced with the reminder that he was on the phone with a thousand year old agent that spoke the arcane language of bureaucracy just as fluently as he could.

“Second verse same as the first. I’m sure there’ll hardly be any major incidents waiting for us. We are nothing if not circumspect.” The blatant lie wafted through the air-conditioned car like a silken thread. Phil suddenly realized the air conditioning was not actually turned on, the vehicle simply felt that way out of sheer magical will. Or due to being in the car with an irritated Jotun. He wasn’t sure which, but he was damn sure he wasn’t going to ask. “Paperwork will be lodged routinely and as necessary, as well as travel particulars, but there’s hardly been anything of real note thus far.” His tone turned cheeky. “That said, I’ve a lovely recommendation for a sub chain. I understand it’s national and not merely regional.”

“ _I’ll skip it for now. Stay within the protocols, guys. It’s not just for our protection, it’s for public trust._ ”

“Absolutely!” The teeth stayed bared as the line went dead. Then Loki tore the phone off the dash and chucked it unceremoniously into the back seat, where it lodged itself into the butt of a seat cushion right down to the last centimeter.

Coulson stared at it, knowing his arm wasn’t long enough to retrieve it without either wiggling halfway back like a nerd or asking Loki to stop the car so he could get out and do it properly. “You know that was my phone.”

“And you have a protective case on it, a good one. Allow me _some_ catharsis. It keeps me from entering his office at night and leaving traps of a particularly petty and mayhap dangerous kind.”

“I lost my position on the phone hold.” There was no point in trying to keep the peevishness out of his voice.

“That wasn’t my fault, that was your good friend and leader Mace. He hung up first. Likely forgot all about his own mad maze of creation and your small place trapped within it.” Loki hit the gas pedal again. “Submit that rubbish through the online entry portal they set up last month, supposedly to cut that very matter of phone congestion you’re dealing with.”

“It isn’t working!”

Loki grinned like the massive bastard he could be, the car reaching the unlikely speed of 110 and starting to wheeze. “You don’t say.”

 


	11. Heroes Never Die

_Colorado Springs_

“I _know_ I’m in the system, someone in my home office just called it in. Sometimes there’s a lag. Can you refresh it?” The ID card in the young guy’s hand tapped in rapid frustration on the top of the faux-marble plastic that made up the security desk’s high counter. The security guard looked up at him again, taking in a bland-looking but narrow face, a high brow, and a mess of swept back dark hair that looked like it had been ripped off from Harry Styles’ look back when he was still with the band. His daughter still had half a dozen pictures of the guy up on the walls and now suddenly cared about a World War II flick. Kids. Wild.

Naturally drowsy-looking green eyes blinked rapidly at him as he considered running the search again or if he should call for extra security just in case this stayed off-routine. It really didn’t seem like that much trouble. Except for the pouting expression and being a little taller than most, the guy somehow looked like every other Silicon Valley hire the office had ever brought in. It was like they all came out of a vat. Hell, they’d hired twelve of them in the last four months, and they all wore those same damn polo shirts and hipster jeans.

The guy with the badge kept blinking down at him. It was distracting. God, the guard hoped the kid wasn’t about to cry. Meanwhile, he was pretty sure the snake plant in the corner was a bigger threat to national security, but routine was routine.

Five minutes earlier, the ID card in Loki’s hand had been an unmarked piece of white plastic ‘borrowed’ from an Arizona science facility. Now it had a tiny profile square that matched Loki’s false-face, plus all the relevant other little knick-knackery he’d seen on a handful of other cards as he’d strode in with the confidence of a man belonging to the scene. He reached out and tapped the top of the guard’s monitor with a finger, the rest of the spell breathed out inaudibly just before he spoke in English again. “Did you refresh?”

“Yeah, yeah, just keep your pants on.” The guard tapped, then rubbed at his eyes as if they bothered him.

Loki knew full well they itched, didn’t smile. He continued to look hangdog instead. “Really dry in here today.”

The guard glanced at him. “Yeah,” came the noncommittal reply. Then he looked at the monitor again, his eyes widening just enough to tell Loki what he saw. “Yeah. There it is. Your clearance just came through.”

He pretended to collapse dramatically against the counter, gangly and twerpish. “Hell. _Thank you_. My super is going to crap if I don’t get that script installed and debugged today. He’s right on my ass, too. Do you know what it takes to get cleared for this pl- of course you do, I’m an idiot.” He pushed himself away lightly, careful to use all the strength of a twentysomething California-grown coder living off of vegan smoothies and energy drinks. The security guard wasn’t part of a public firm, according to Coulson’s parking lot research. He was actually Homeland Sec, and he was going to notice if something seemed off with anyone trying to make it past his desk. “Thank you so much.”

The guard rolled his eyes up towards Loki’s illusioned face, openly bemused. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Second elevator, kid. Remember, you can’t check out until you’re done, because I won’t let you back in.”

. . .

Loki slid into the office set next to the server stacks themselves after a few easy kidlike grins and stammers. He kept the illusion up once the door was closed for the sake of the narrow window slice next to it that opened onto another and much busier cubicle farm, but his eyes sharpened into familiar alertness as he took command of an empty chair belonging to a floor supervisor. Getting access in here was easy - if he’d gotten past the security desk and knew a few of the right words, the IT guys down here didn’t give a damn.

A few seconds later and he had access to the security system via a jumpdrive loaded with a few of Daisy Johnson’s toolkits. Better her tactics for this than his more cutting interference. He shut down all the locks on the system, fed the keylogger into a loop that would make it look as if the computer had been untouched, and then proceeded to dig his way efficiently into the internet connections handled by the machines in the chilled rooms behind him. That would eventually trip a different line of security, but by then he’d be almost done. And meanwhile, he knew the guard would be well distracted.

. . .

“He just came in now? _Now_? I told his ass to be done and out of there before I met him. It’s three o’clock. I’ve got another site I want to be at, and then I want to go the hell home.” Coulson stared at the security guard, flushed to his ears. In another minute, an error was going to get picked up in the system. His job was to make this guy not notice it for at least another two.

“Well, more like fifteen minutes ago, but.” The guard shrugged, trying to not recoil from the peevish efficiency of the man whom the Harry Styles lookalike had clearly feared. Some part of him felt bad for the kid now. This was one of those uptight sweatervest guys, a man two coffees and a crunched deadline away from a coronary. Every tech company had at least one. “He couldn’t have gotten in too much faster, there’d been some kinda lag on his clearance.”

Coulson’s face clouded over. He might not be a master illusionist, but he could act just fine. “Is that right?”

“Can’t be his fault. That’s from someone else in the food chain.”

“You’re damn straight it is.” He stared up at the speckled industrial ceiling in impotent fury, then back down at the guard with grudging apology. “I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, either.”

The guard’s tension eased off, and he gave the ‘supervisor’ a grin. “I know, but hey, I got a punchable face. It’s why they give me the front desk jobs.”

Coulson laughed, then looked down at his phone. He’d needed some kind of push to keep the guard busy, and this looked like a good one when he was looking at options. “Oh, hey. Wildcard game just got a score update a few minutes ago. You following that?”

The guard leaned over to look at his own phone, missing the first flicker of the alert light on his console. Coulson leaned harder on the counter, his elbow shoving the light jacked he’d carried in over just enough to mask the flickering LED. “Hey, we’re up two points!”

. . .

The hipster’s coder uniform turned into a set of black pants and a much nicer dark shirt as Loki dropped like a cat into the car. Coulson considered trying to worm his way out of the sweatervest right there, but decided to wait until they got out of the lot. “Think you got anything?”

“I’ve at least three weeks of traceroute information I need to scan, Coulson. I haven’t a ruddy idea.” He dug for his laptop. “Is there a place we can find with fresh air? I’d do better out of this damned thing for a bit.”

“Yeah, no problem. Honestly, so would I. Want to clear my head out before we find out where to go next.” Coulson glanced over his shoulder as a bunch of unhappy looking men in dark uniforms started to swarm the front door of the facility. Guess the security guard finally noticed the blinky light. Two more started to look out over the lot - seeking _them_. “Ah. I should have had you drive.”

Loki looked back, arching one eyebrow. He didn’t look concerned, merely slid the laptop back down against his feet and prepared to focus on the approaching investigation. “Just move normally. I’ll see they lose us.”

They had very big guns, the dudes in black. Coulson peeled out anyway, although maybe not up to Loki’s previous speed standards. “Challenge mode.”

Loki raised a hand with a grimace, putting a spell to work anyway and hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with bullet deflection. “Wonderful. _Thank_ you.”

“No problem,” said Phil, as cheerfully as Loki could have when being a dick.

The next was muttered for his own private annoyance. “I suppose I ought be grateful you didn’t pick an _actual_ fight just for whimsy’s sake.”

. . .

“I’ve the usual good news and bad news.” Loki nudged the laptop away from him, swiveling around from where he sat on a wooden bench attached to a picnic table. He squinted against the setting sun, finding Coulson standing with his hands in his pocket at the edge of a small creek. He was studying the occasional ripples, watching small frogs and the rare fish break the surface. There had been a regional park not far away from their latest illicit act of illegal entry, a quiet but flat space filled with the tracks of Canada Geese and the smells of sparse but healthy trees. The human had been quiet and thoughtful since arriving and there had been no interlopers. It suited Loki well enough, but the silence had gone on long enough to catch his notice as being unusual. “Hoary tradition demands I ask. Which would you like first?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Coulson didn’t turn around. “Stick with that order, I guess.”

“Well. The good news is I’ve matched up the route that pinged between the Arizona facility and its home connection, up to and including within hours ago. I can’t puzzle out the piggybacked emails I found, the resource information I accessed didn’t allow for that. Only the route, of which I now know precisely where that route begins and terminates.” Loki leaned his back against the clean table, feeling the edge of it nestle underneath his shoulderblades.

“Okay?”

Loki arched his eyebrow. “The bad news is, based on the fact that the route continues to _allow_ a trace to be run despite that poor fool’s suicide in Arizona, I say with full confidence that it is a trap.”

He watched Coulson nod once, slow. “Where’s the home connection?”

“South Africa. Northwestern region of the country, roughly about three hundred kilometers away from Cape Town. I didn’t find anything on the digital maps there except a slice of private park established decades ago, which obviously means that’s correct.” Loki smiled slightly. “And what did you find in the water as I worked?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“You know,” said Loki, using that edge of the table to silence a brief itch under his left blade. He looked up at the sky before he continued, where the blue deepened and gave away to the colorful red and orange riot of a clean sunset. “When I get uncommunicative, everyone grows nervy.”

“I’m making you nervous?” Coulson almost turned, sounding surprised.

Loki snorted. “Not hardly. But the outcomes of our silences are oddly similar - as my silence oft results in far too much thought and the creation of poor ideas to counter them. Historical effect, really. I can trace most of the worst moments of my life to that tendency of mine. So what poorly considered idea are we coming to, and should I get out the good armor?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Gods save the All-Father,” came the sardonic drawl. “You’re being unusually truculent, and your mood was fine just before.”

That got him a look. “Historical effects.” Phil looked away again. “Thinking about that, mostly. Rogers and Carter and the rest of the Commandos. And the war.” Another glance. “I’ve been lucky to meet a lot of those people before they died. When I joined SHIELD, a lot of the people still alive were still serving or consulting. Jones did a speech for my academy first year I was there, and hell, when I was in high school, I wrote to Tim Dugan. He was very old then. I wasn’t sure if he’d answer. He did. Meant a lot to me.”

“Met Rogers later than most of these.”

“I did. Never thought I would, either.” He fell silent again for a moment. “I remember the first time I met Agent Carter. Back in the very late seventies. Wasn’t a big deal, I mean, it wasn’t hardly more than a brush in the halls.”

“But it made an impression.”

“Yeah. It did.”

. . .

_Agent Coulson could hear her voice leading the way for her all the way up the hall, clear and fine and still perfectly accented, noticing the way other agents in the hall of the DC forum pressed against the walls to make room for her as she walked by. “Of course the risks to the Asian countries cannot be understated. I realize what the senators think of the Cambodia reports, but our information supports the conclusion drawn. There is a very dire situation going on and it must be addressed.”_

_He stepped to the side as Carter and the man she was speaking with came into view. Alexander Pierce shook his head, thick manila folders striped with the countless colors of Top Secret and above flapping under his arm. “It’s delicate. The Vietnamese aren’t going to look favorably on any further American interventionism right now. They want to keep control of the operation.”_

_“Entirely understandable. But when history looks back at our actions, sir, I want to say that we once again recognized a genocide for what it was - and at the barest minimum, attempted to react to it with the greatest of intentions.” She stopped firm on one short heel to look calmly at Pierce. Coulson realized he was staring at the legendary agent, tried to find something, anything else to look at._

_Short of the long neon tubes above, there weren’t many options. Almost furtive, he continued to watch her argue, losing track of what was actually being discussed. He was dimly aware Pierce was becoming more heated as he debated Agent Carter, a flush coming along the skin of his neck. Carter herself remained cool as silk in wintertime, and then she looked right at him. A jolt passed through his arms at the connection. “You, there.”_

_“Ma,am,” he said with a firmness he didn’t feel._

_“You’re one of Fury’s new ones. Coulson, isn’t it?” She inclined her head politely._

_“Yes ma’am.”_

_She glanced at Pierce. “Nick Fury hasn’t turned his eye away from the Asian crucible, Alexander. That tells me a great deal. Not all our threats are of the most unusual sort. Our greatest challenges often come from smaller and more bleakly human motivations.” Then at him. “Where is he now?”_

_“On the record, ma’am, he’s currently at the Korean embassy.” Not quite the full truth, although it was the right region. She would know that. “Russian interdictions,” he offered, the rest of the prepared fiction. Pierce glanced at him next, bland. He didn’t like Pierce, never quite put a finger on why. More politician than security ally, maybe. Fury trusted him, so he never said a word. But something about him…_

_The lightning bolt struck again, drawing his attention. “Of course. Please pass to Fury that I would like an update on that interdiction at soonest opportunity.” She smiled at Coulson, the subtle salvo of her request undercutting Pierce completely - he would have nothing to counter her until Fury’s report swayed the situation either way. And since that was what he was in the region to do, oversee a handful of silent special operations designed to examine and at the very least reveal the extent of what was happening in Cambodia so that it couldn’t be ignored, that’s where the matter would lay. “Pierce, you and I will reconvene then.”_

_“Right away,” said Coulson. He barely even heard the words ‘Thank you, Agent,’ when she said them. They melted into his skin instead._

_He suspected he fell in love with her then, just a little._

_. . ._

“You didn’t go to her funeral last year.”

Coulson turned to look at Loki, the sun going past orange and falling into the deep purpling hues of night. “Why would I?”

A dark eyebrow arched in silent response.

“Agent Carter was like Captain Rogers to me, Loki. A living idea. A living _ideal_ , the goal to achieve, to strive for every time I go to work. The best way of fighting to be human, using even her own flaws to become better at what she did. She never stopped for anything. Hell, we didn’t even know in the agency that she was starting to fade until she stepped down and checked into the care clinic. It was the ultimate secret, her final operation as an agent. She arranged everything she could until the last possible moments, and then she disappeared with the same grace and steadfastness that she left draped over everything she did.” Coulson looked away again, at the moonrise. “She didn’t die. Ideals don’t die. Our heroes don’t really leave us, not when they’re that strong. Why would I go and say goodbye to someone that, as far as I was concerned, was still alive? Who always will be?”

Loki remained silent.

“So I think about her. And I think about Rogers. And you just told me where there’s, in all probability, another secret hideout where everything those two ever fought against is festering and growing something new to try and bring them all back into power again. And yeah, you also just told me there’s a trap. That because we hit Arizona, they know someone’s out looking for them.”

He interlaced his fingers, bemused. “As you yet seem to desire, Coulson, they may as well have laid a neon-blazing message in the traceroute that said ‘ _Meet us on the roof at noon for a proper arse-kicking._ ’”

Coulson laughed, unable to help it. It was true. “Yeah, basically, huh?”

Loki studied him, eyes glinting a sharp emerald as the first stars began to peek through the last vestiges of daylight. “So. The good armor, then. And the now factual knowledge that I happily lied through my teeth to the new director. How nostalgic. I almost _like_ it.”

“And maybe we rent a better car when we get there. It’s gonna be a good long drive out to that park or whatever. What the hell.”

“And a difficult one. It’s rough terrain coming,” said Loki, mild. The warning was back in his voice. “Ought face it prepared.”

Coulson ignored it, looking at the setting sun and thinking still of heroes past.


	12. One Pleasant Night

“Ja, I see one American, identified as Agent Phillip J. Coulson. Matches the report I was given.” He was dressed like a garish tourist, stuck in the corner of a fast food booth at the Cape Town International Airport, and he spoke quickly into his phone like he was on the line with an irritated partner waiting for him at the other end of a long flight. He no longer looked at the pair of men with a small pile of luggage stacked next to them, knowing he was good enough at what he did to not draw unnecessary attention. “I cannot identify the other with him. He must be new, after the expulsion of the agency. I already sent a photo.”

“ _We have no identification of the other one available. Unknown quantity, then. But the results we expected. An exploratory group. Be cautious.”_ The master’s intermediary sounded sharp. It was risky, allowing the pair of agents to get close. But it was the master’s command, and so it would be obeyed.

“Of course, of course.” He grinned and rang off. _He_ certainly wasn’t going to be the one on their tail. He was just the spotter for the hunting team, and he liked it that way.

. . .

Loki looked down at the latest set of rental keys in his hands. Some monstrous truck waited for them when the shuttle to the lot finally arrived, at least a better class of vehicle and suited for the long stretches of arid and often empty terrain that waited for them. Still not to his taste. “Yet just the one watcher, then?”

“Thinks he’s a badass spy. Bet he’s a stringer, not even formally part of the organization or whatever. A jackhole with a paycheck. I know the type. It was this or being a paparazzo, but this makes him feel cooler.” Coulson finished strapping a backpack over his shoulder, eyeing the heavy sports bag loaded with field supplies and other emergency gear that he was going to be lugging for a few. Loki could have easily handled all of it, but so long as there was a minor chance they didn’t ID him - Loki was _slightly_ disguised though through demeanor even more than actual illusion, a sleeker look with short hair and a milder, more harmless posture, ‘Brigham Locke’s’ standard public appearance - that left another ace in their pocket. Phil could lug the weight all day for that benefit.

“Worth tossing him for information, you think?”

“Nah, let him believe he’s king of the world. If I’m right, he doesn’t have anything good anyway. Can maybe trace the phone he’s pretending to talk to his wife on, but we already know roughly where we’re going.” Coulson leaned out at the the hope that the twice-delayed shuttle was about to show up. Nope. Make that thrice-delayed. At least the flight had run early. “We’ll probably grow a tail once we get the truck though, and they’ll probably give up an actual address once we hit them upside the head.”

“Not even pretending to be civil about this possibility, I see.” There was a complete lack of judgment in Loki’s voice.

“Don’t really see a point. Either they’re just going to track us and report our movements to the forward squad actually meant to jump us before we get in range of the base, or they’re going to wait for the right time to do it themselves. Not friendly behavior. We’ll be ready for it.”

“I thought we were going to bring cookies.” Loki yawned and picked up his own portion of the bags, lightly but not with his usual strength. “So what’s your plan?”

“Get the truck, look for a decent hotel in the city because I’m frigging tired, take a nap, see who’s been scouting us in the morning, and use that to decide what we do with them. Always find it’s best to show up for an ass-kicking well rested.”

“Thank Gods, I thought we were headed straight to the road yet again.” Loki turned to look for the shuttle, actually watching the would-be spy slip out of his booth with a cheeseburger wrapper clenched in his hand. “Not much of a firm plan, however.”

“Look. Between the plane and the last several days in a car, I feel almost seasick. I want at least ten hours of sleep on a flat, immobile surface, and maybe some actual food I can eat with a fork. A metal one. Maybe with a cloth napkin, even.”

“Sick of road food at last. The year of miracles is upon us.” The words came in a sardonic drone as Loki carefully settled his bag across his own shoulder, his suit taking the load without creasing.

“Tell you what, you can pick dinner once we know where we’re holing up.” Coulson laughed. “No burgers allowed.”

“I’m _touched_.” He almost sounded it. “I’m not a cheap date, Coulson, left to my own decisions.”

Coulson rolled his eyes at the joke. “You’re being bribed. And we’ve barely touched travel expenses. I ride light.”

“As if I will hold undue guilt over being asked to harm a bunch of individuals you’ve preemptively decided to hate.”

The phrasing gave him pause. Worse, he was pretty sure it was intentional. Unreality hit him again. The notion he was being consistently warned by _Loki_. “I dunno if it’s preemptive.”

“Is at the moment by my reckoning. If that changes, well.” Loki shrugged the topic away, then leaned out again with a brief look of relief at the sight of a trundling shuttlebus. “Damnation, finally, there’s the ruddy thing.”

. . .

Loki swirled Aubergine’s house riesling with a gentle swish of his hand clasped around the bowl of the fine crystal glass, the recommended wine for the duck consommé he’d just finished, looking at the already stunned human on the other side of the table. “That was merely the second course, Coulson.”

“Out of how many?”

“Five, I believe. The _amuse bouche_ doesn’t count. And before you ask, yes, the wine pairings are different for each.” Loki laughed at the groan he got in return. “You might be a simpler sort, which is not meant as insult, but this is closer to what I grew up with.” He arched an eyebrow. “Well. Quieter, really. Fewer goblets and mugs being smashed about, no large hairy warrior in the corner trying to belt out an off-key ode to grand battle. I don’t think they allow those in Michelin star restaurants.” Then he turned thoughtful. “Dear Gods, I think I like this better.”

Coulson sagged back against the chair. “I’m not _that_ backwoods. I just don’t do this often. Anyway, I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”

“Usually the goal of a meal like this one. Besides, we’re not actually on a firm schedule.” Loki studied him. The man was going to be practically passed out by dessert. Good enough for what he had in mind. “We leave at dawn, we leave at noon, what’s the difference? We find our prey when we do, no sooner nor later.” He smirked at the noncommittal mutter, careful to not sound chiding. “Enjoy one pleasant night before dirtying your knuckles further, why don’t you?”

“You’re being outright nice.” It was followed by an unusually sharp look. Loki found that nettled him, just a touch. “That’s _bizarre_.”

“I’ve hardly been shot at once during this, it’s a pleasant change from eldritch things and grand galactic disasters and sorcerous horror. I can afford nicety once in a while, among company I respect.” He furrowed his brow, remembering. “Well, there was that fool with the shotgun. I almost forgot about that. I suppose he barely counts.”

“Still.”

“I’ve mellowed,” said Loki, taking a sip of the wine and finding it really quite good for a house speciality. “When did that become a moment to rekindle distrust?”

“It doesn’t. It’s not that. I don’t know.” Coulson picked up his own wine glass. “I’m just off-kilter.”

 _Yes. You have been._ Loki drained the glass and set it aside. _Fixated on this matter to an extent even I would call obsessive, and not regarding your own position in context of it. Risky, Coulson. I know full well what that might lead to. You’ve ignored my other warnings, and I know you noticed them. You’re not an idiot._ Out loud, all he did was smile. “A good night’s rest, and then what tomorrow brings.” He glanced up, arching one eyebrow in interest as the thin and lovely sound began to cut through the air. “Ah. A violinist.”

“Seriously?” Phil turned to look.

“I suggest not examining the check when it arrives.”

. . .

He had been right. Coulson was knocked on his ass dead asleep by nine by the hearty and elegant _degustation_ meal, locking himself in his hotel room with a SHIELD clasp on the door for extra security and the knowledge that Loki was in the next room, prone to sleeping like a particularly touchy bird. At least the wines were fine enough that the human might avoid a hangover.

Loki was not asleep. He sat on the edge of his otherwise untouched bed with his hands loosely pressed together, considering if what he had in mind would be first regarded as a breach of trust or, as intended, as a matter of protection. The debate troubled him deeply. The human was far too driven, embracing the idea of walking into the known trap ahead of them with a verve that could easily become suicidal. All for the hope of stopping another fascist rise before it snowballed. Loki thought he understood at least the fringes of the concern, deeming it true. Thought with some certainty he understood the roots of it - those _ideals_ the man went on about, the honor he held for the goals of warriors past.

It was interesting to him. This human thing was not the chest-thumping ode to war of Asgard, but something far more philosophical and yet just as compelling. A deep-rolling sentiment, a need to continually better themselves against what small animals they could be if led to embrace their baser hates and fears. The disreputable creatures he himself had once dismissed them as, that others in his childhood realm might still see when glancing this way.

Loki’s fingers tapped against each other, picking occasionally at the edges of his nails and then his palms as his thoughts crashed together, messier than he liked. More than once, despite all odds or sense, his human friend had stepped between him and worse disaster, often of his own make. Now Coulson was marching unstoppably towards the birthplace of not only this potentially reborn and yet veiled ‘Red Skull,’ but the surviving apparatus of Hydra’s racist hate that would support it. The reason was good. The method… two men, alone. Even with his own talents to balance the scales, he judged that was tactically unwise. Mace had been cut out, for better or for worse. No backup. No one currently knew where they were save their uncounted enemies. And Coulson was prepared to eat extra fights over his _ideals_ for the sake of being in the fray.

Loki looked to better those odds. Not for his own sake, but for this strange and good friend who had chosen to forget to protect himself to serve the memory of his heroes. Very well. This time, _he_ would take up the slack.

 _Wait to be jumped?_ He smiled, coming to the conclusion he needed. _Not hardly._

. . .

“You would think with the fokken money going around, the boss could have spotted us the money for a table in there for proper survey. Get us a proper supper, even. You see the bakkie these two rented? Monster fokken truck, not cheap. They’ll fit right in at the village, dunno why the pressure. Let them rent a house.” Fons shook his head, still annoyed. He resettled his bum against the car, looking back at the hotel on the Cape Town outskirts now and then. Most of the lights were out by now, including both the ones they were watching.

“Tall one’s a pom. Fok ‘im and fok the Queen. I’d do him over with my knife just for.” For emphasis, Hendrik flipped his bush knife where he sat behind the driver’s wheel. “Don’t get soft on me, Fons.”

“He English?”

“What I said. Heard ‘im talk. Proper-like. Did all the ordering and whatnot while I went by the window to bug it.” Not that they’d heard much of a damn thing after the violinist came by. “Swear the pom tipped the musician extra just to keep ‘im round.”

“Might have. Say at least they’re agents from overseas, not often the dumbshit sort. Why we got the word to be careful, Hen. Safety first. For our families.” Fons wrinkled his face, looking over at the bushes nearby as the wind rustled through them. He didn’t expect any trouble. Three other rough men were watching the perimeter of the place, and one of them had eyes on their car at all times. “Pommie, though. With an American? What outfit are we watching, then?”

“Beats me, I just work here. Upper management doesn’t tell us kak.” Hendrik yawned. “When we get the go for a hit, ask him when we start stripping skin off. If that doesn’t work, we got the usual stuff in the trunk. Might be dumb enough to have a badge on him, if nothing else.”

“I don’t carry a badge unless I have to.” The shadow that appeared next to Fons spoke calmly in a smooth and richly cultured accent.

Fons looked up, and up, and up into a grinning marble face blazing bright down at him, feeling frozen surprise wriggle its way down his back and numbing his hands, and his first and last fully worded thought was _foksake, Hen, that’s no pom accent. I don’t know wha-_

He thought his skull was going to split. Maybe it did. Darkness took him, preceded by falling stars flashing bright.

The trunk of the car opened, then slammed shut again. Footsteps passed where Fons had been along the back passenger side. Hendrik shoved his shoulder into the synthetic leather of the seat, looking for Fons’s wide ass to go by. He didn’t see him, leaned down and towards where he’d been. “What’d you say, Fons? Where you go? Aweh, you’re such an _arse_.” He shook his head and turned back around, annoyed. Routine said to never disappear alone. Even for a piss. He’d have Fon’s guts for lunch when he showed back up.

The white hand dropped onto the gap left by the open window. He saw the knuckles first, the way the metal and plastic gave way as the hand clenched seemingly without effort. Not as dumb as he could sound, Hendrik slammed the quietly idling car into drive and hit the gas.

The front-wheel drive squealed once and then nothing but their whirring complaints. He pressed the pedal harder, wondering how in the hell they’d gotten stuck on clean pavement, then realized the angle of _everything_ was slightly wrong. He was too high up, if by mere inches. Enough to be sure the tires caught nothing but air.

Another hand came all the way in and turned the vehicle off. The car dropped back down with a massive thud. Hendrik heard the axle snap first - and then the door was torn off, exposing him. “Huh!” he gasped, at a lack for anything more ornate. Then he rallied. At least one of the other three on patrol had to have seen this attack going down. “I’ve backup inbound!”

“No,” said Loki, pulling him out like he was a small child hidden in the cupboard under the sink. “You don’t.”

The conviction in the voice washed over him with arctic ice. Hendrik realized he was starting to hyperventilate, almost missing what the man said next. “No one is coming. No one will save you.” The smile came back, light and playful. Hendrik realized the looming figure had taken his knife away at some point. It seemed to dance in the man’s hand, glinting in the moonlight as the blade of it balanced and dipped between long figures. He’d taken fine care of that knife over the years in service to Hydra’s secret faction. It was glass-sharp and clean. In the white hand, it now looked like an alien artifact forever intended for his attacker instead. “You suggested stripping my skin off. How _florid_. Let’s talk, Henny.”

The knife fluttered in the air like a promise. Hendrik knew just how precise the tip of it was, couldn’t take his eyes away from it. “And if you don’t tell me what I’d like to know straight away, I want you to understand that I’m _most_ _inspired_ by your suggestions.”

 

 


	13. Berserker

“Breakfast.” The knock on his door was gentle but insistent.

Coulson scrunched his face, more than a little bleary from what he’d calculated as about eleven and a half hours of sleep. His head thumped, more from that than the wine. He’d always been told to drink the good stuff to avoid suffering the next day, not that that always fit his budget. Seemed to bear out here, though. He looked down to make sure his loose pants and his tee was on right, then picked up his service weapon and kept it low by his side. He went to the door. “I didn’t order breakfast,” he said. He raised up on his toes to peek out the spyhole.

“Companion guest next door did, sir.” The kid in the natty blue hotel uniform stood by, of all goddamn things, a silver rolling cart loaded with enough stuff to kill Orson Welles. Again. “Said he’d be joining momentarily?”

_Oh, God,_ thought Coulson, feeling a wildness punch him in the guts with its primal acidity. _What did he do?_ “Ah, one second.”

He threw on the thin hotel bathrobe and dropped his gun in the pocket, fumbling at the door so that the kid wouldn’t notice the extra deadbolt magnetized into place. “Yeah, come on in, then.”

The kid wheeled the cart in, and by the look on his face, Coulson realized this was not a guy that was going to notice a damn thing out of place. Coulson could have gone total rock star on the room and it would have meant nothing. Kid looked almost winded. “Your friend is a scary guy. Was incredibly insistent on adding some off menu items.”

“He has an effect on people,” Phil said neutrally. Then he realized he was probably supposed to tip. Maybe. What were the damn social rules in South Africa? He winced.

The kid rescued him, still focused elsewhere. “Scary, but hey. I didn’t get a chance to thank him. Ah, he took care of everything, sir.” He dipped a bow, then all but bolted for the door. “Should be right behind me.”

“I am.” Loki slid in the door, watching the kid vanish after another panicked bow in his direction. “I didn’t think I was _that_ impactful.”

Coulson didn’t turn around. He shut his eyes and felt the headache start to spread, waiting for the click of the door before he said something. “What did you do?”

“Who says I did anything?” It sounded wholly earnest. His hallmark of perfect falsity.

“Oh, God. _What did you do_?”

Loki’s shadow passed over him. Coulson opened his eyes and watched Loki pull the cart over to the small white table by the window, then take a cup for himself for coffee. He sat with smooth grace in the chair, looking calmly at Phil. “We need to talk. After breakfast, preferably.”

“Why wait?”

“Because it’s a three way conversation and I didn’t invite the, ah, extra wheel.” Loki poured another cup for him and set it down. “Don’t worry, he won’t bleed out if we take our time. I made certain of that.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

Loki set his coffee down, lifting the lid off one of the silver plates. He looked satisfied at the contents, a colorful display of roasted vegetables and perfectly scrambled eggs. “His name is Hendrik, and he belongs, body and soul, to a private village built on the outskirts of the Tankwa Karoo national park. Duquesne, apparently called. Right where the traceroute placed it. Ostensibly a residential area intended only for cultural Afrikaners, by which I mean the solely white descendants of the Dutch that held imperial and trade control here. I was able to extract a little… _more_ … than that.” He let the lid go, selecting the carafe of orange juice instead. “Ownership of the village is in the corporate name of Imperial Industries International. No mayor. Mastery is held under a man named Arnaud Bruin, the reclusive CEO of that corporation. They’re almost all reclusive, the evil ones. Did you ever notice that?”

“Loki.” It was almost soundless.

“Bruin, I discovered via a casual check, has a grandfather that served in the second Boer War with ‘distinction,’ then, via less casual but still public check, this patriarch went on to become a close personal friend and confidant of Johann Schmidt during the Nazi regime. I am led to believe by Hendrik’s _enthusiastic_ revelations that this has meant a great deal to the family even today. The village, therefore, is named for a Nazi spy of some renown. To honor that old connection in a subtler way.” Loki leaned back in the seat and looked steadily at him. “Shall we argue about what I did now or after I formally introduce you to young, terrified Hendrik, who has killed, I learned, at least fifteen men at Bruin’s command over the last two years alone and intended a similar fate for us? Shall I tell you what they had waiting for us in the trunk of their car? Barbaric, really.”

Coulson didn’t move. He felt stricken, knew his face was pale with confusion and building fury. “Why did you do that?”

“I see we’re going for _now_.” Loki leaned back and clasped his hands together. He fell quiet for a while, then licked his lips once. “Do you understand what my problem was with the ascendancy of my brother? Have I ever explained the core of what was then a rightful concern, in language that is plain enough for children’s teachings?”

“No,” said Coulson, still visibly upset. “You don’t talk about that much. And definitely not plainly. Why does that matter right now?”

“Yes, well.” He glanced up at the ceiling, tense for a moment. “There was a rumor in the family that’s no rumor at all, Coulson. That somewhere in the blood of kings lies barely quiescent the blood of berserkers. A story that is in its way almost as dangerous as the hidden riddle of what Asgard would yet consider an adopted monster’s get. Two sons, Odin saw raised. Both weapons. And while Odin could be prone to his rages - Oh, Gods, could he - he was tempered in a way that I didn’t see in my brother for a long time. Certainly not several scant years ago. Thor was a passionate creature, always. He could be provoked to battle with an ease that to many outside our castle walls seemed heroic. And as he grew into adulthood, I found the simplicity of that provocation frightening. One word. One insult. And wars would happen, unnecessary things that would bring blood raining down on us.” Loki arched an eyebrow, turning grim. “Wars that did happen, when one such insult turned the old ice between Asgard and Jotunheim into a new inferno.”

“That’s how he got exiled. I got that story.”

Loki looked away. “No one will ever easily believe, maybe not even you despite what I’ve told you in the past, but my intention truly wasn’t his downfall. It was just to make someone, _anyone_ see that he was _not_ tempered in the way he needed to be. He was not ready to rule. Yet. The bloodline ran too close to the skin, untrained, unharnessed. I released more than I bargained for.” He sighed. “I weaponized us both far before Odin ever intended.”

“Does this get to a point?”

Loki didn’t look at him. The skin across his brow tightened, then smoothed. “You’ve seen our berserkers in combat, Phil. You’ve seen the staff our ancestors made to chivvy lesser warriors into that blood-veiled apex, you’ve seen it in _my_ hands, just once. Just for seconds. Damnable thing. I shouldn’t have, I was already angry and once again I betrayed my own convictions doing so. That was then, I suppose.

“There is no reason in the berserker’s fight, Phil. No rationality. Honor becomes secondary behind the need to slay. You point them in a direction and hope they kill the right thing before they are torn down by desperate, terrified enemies, and you swear to their families they served for Asgard’s golden glory before the halls of Valhalla itself. I saw them on the battlefield first time when I was barely in my thirties, so damned young, and I pledged then that my way would be of colder tactics. Not some rain of senseless _gore_.”

The tingle hit Coulson’s spine. He took the seat across from Loki in silence, but he left the coffee alone.

“We tell ourselves we put them into play for the right reasons. Often, that’s even true. Sometimes the only right weapon for the job is the worst one. Nonetheless, I detest it. Now. You ask me before if I am troubled coming along on this matter. If I am troubled by acting as your weapon and harming your enemies in a way your kind considers more brutal than our other realms do. And I am not. Not by that. I have followed your mad hunt of my free will, as I would have done for my brother long ago.”

Loki glanced at him before he continued, eyes cold in a way he hadn’t seen for years. Not out of anger - to make him focus entirely on what was being said. “And it is a mad hunt. We go from place to place without a plan, often focused on the fights that come without regard for defense. The berserker here among us now lurks in in _your shadow_ , Phil, a bloodthirst unleashed by a need to do right by those you consider ancestors of a sort. This is unusual, and it concerns me. And though I see it is for good and right reason, the lack of plan is _not_ right. The madness leads us instead into the open fray, by insensate design. I thought arriving here, endgame approaching sight, you would still yourself and try to think tactically about what comes next. You have not. I have therefore taken appropriate action to shore up this lack of defense. As I would have done for my brother. Long ago.”

“Appropriate?” Coulson snapped the word, resisting the urge to slam the table.

“No one died last night while you slept. Four men intent on giving you the fight you wanted are held unconscious and will be delivered to a medical facility by the end of the day. _Tactically_ speaking, I _should_ have killed them. They will speak eventually to their families and to the town’s master. But I’ve delayed them for quite some time. The fifth is held, conscious and mentally scarred, for which I will not apologize.” Loki didn’t blink. “He liked to play with knives. I expect I’ve broken him of that, and I did it without resorting to the _tools_ they brought with them. He hates me, however, and that’s fine. Regardless, they might not have been able to stop me when they struck. But they intended to separate us before leaving the city, which may have worked. And before I could have returned to you, they were prepared to do a great deal of harm in a short period of time.”

Loki inclined his head politely, still deadly calm. “Did you want your remaining organic fingers, Phil? Your toes? Your kidney, sections of your intestines? They brought a rib spreader. An old one, well worn. I saw other _toys_ laid in clean boxes. They want to hurt before they kill. Hunters of men, and no mercy between them. According to young Hendrik, it is because they view their enemies as lesser and foul. You yourself are barely human to them. I might be their nightmare incarnate, if they saw my real face. They believe utterly in the primacy of themselves - and what they might become. I saw the lessons we heard being spread in Arizona writ in Hendrik’s bones. He was raised in it, it seems to me. He will die to preserve it, despite the fear I put in him. That’s what we’re facing. The two of _us_.”

Coulson realized he was sagging against the chair. Coldness filled his chest, tight and on the edge of choking him. He’d been read out the riot act, and worst of all, he realized the warnings had been there all along. Resentment piled up first, fermenting and hot - where the hell did _Loki_ get the right to bawl _him_ out for his decisions?

Then his face went slack at the next shock. Because he’d never done anything but try to let Loki earn his second chance at being a better person. Because that chance had succeeded and now the alien was his friend.

And because he’d done that, it was time for his friend to try and do the same right back. In his own strange and imperfect way. He felt sick, realizing he had nothing to say.

Loki tugged at the cart, pulling out a plate of breakfast meat and another of cold cheeses. “Another meal will settle your stomach. Take the time to think. I fully expect to be on the road north by the end of the day, but my hope is we will do so better prepared than at the day’s beginning.”

He found something to fumble onto, watching bacon and roasted greens get piled onto a plate in front of him. “You’re still going.”

“What I already indicated. I have allied myself to this endeavor. Don’t make me repeat myself.” Loki served himself next. “I’ll have absolutely no trouble flensing the entire village, if it comes to that. I want only to be certain that it is the right thing to be done, with no other alternative available, and with at least the vestige of a plan in mind.”

“If these guys get more of a foothold in world politics than what the rumors are saying - you know, we’ve got trouble in Russia for years, hard right people are trying to come to power in Europe, we’ve got senators and representatives passing off hate speech on their Facebook posts on the regular - then I don’t know what other alternatives exist. This isn’t something you reason with. We play by Marquis of Queensbury rules with a power-grabbing fascist regime with a solid playbook of their own in hand, and we’re gonna get steamrolled. Hydra’ll take power again, like they did on the Security Council, like they did among us and the military, and back then as part of the Reich, and a lot of people will _thank_ them for it.”

“So you fight them. As your heroes did.” Loki tilted his head, seeming to consider as he took up his fork. “It’s no wrong thing to be passionate, Coulson, but I’ve learned you do have to be willing to question yourself. That was my mistake. My…. Tyranny.” He put the fork back down again, thoughtful. “I believed too strongly in my own rightness.”

“You had a real concern, back then. It just all went to hell.”

“Mm. Good intentions, etcetera. Hel has few roads, however.” Gray-green eyes flickered up. “So what’s the plan?”

Coulson’s stomach finally growled. The bacon did smell damn good. He tried to think. Start in the calm place. “Well. Eat first, then go question the guy you grabbed, see if there’s anything else left to find out, get what perspective I can. Get an idea of the village layout, maybe.” He looked at Loki, wry. “It’s possible, you know, that we do finally make a plan and we get out there and it all falls apart anyway.”

“Perhaps so. Likely, really. But adaptation _relies_ on the attempt to prepare. The intellectual work is never wasted, Coulson. It matters. I’ve a thousand years of war and conniving and survival by the skin of my teeth to prove that out.”

“Fair enough. I’ll try to bear that in mind.” He picked up a fork, looking at the skinny strips of meat, suddenly unsettled. “What exactly did you do to that guy?”

Loki smiled, an easy and almost lazy expression that showed no teeth. It was somehow more frightening than the old jackal. “I wouldn’t worry about that just now.”


	14. Reservoir Dogs

Loki was driving the truck with considerably more restraint than he had used with the rental car stateside. No wonder, really. While the roads were generally decent when they were on them, their particular choice of main trail north was via harder backroads and off-map guesswork. The landscape was open and arid, with scattered trees fighting for their right to live against the pitiless and sandy land. But they drove with the windows open, and the hot air smelled clean and somehow still fresh out here close to a number of untouched parks.

He’d slowed further at the sight of a small herd of springbok readying to cross the barely worn track leading into some sloping hills, fully stopping the truck for a moment as the elegant creatures finally hopped and popped their way along, flashing a rainbow of warm browns and a flicker of white in the evening light. Both of them watched them go in silence, Loki, by his expression, more than a little bemused by the sight. And then he drove on, not looking back. The moment had passed.

Coulson wanted to watch the scenery as it flowed by more than he wanted to keep going over the rest of the information Hendrik had given up. As Loki had all but promised, the guy had been still alive in the otherwise abandoned garage about a mile from the hotel, visibly terrified, and there were telltale signs of just how interesting the prisoner’s night had been. Nothing about his injuries looked fatal, but had they been, he doubted Loki cared much. The antipathy the alien bore the restrained human was a physical thing trailing like a snake through the dusty air. Several years ago, the man would have been paste without another thought. Only the barest lines of respect for human ethics kept it from happening now.

When Loki had wordlessly indicated the box he’d taken out of their hunter’s trunk, Coulson got a better, and disturbing, sense of why the hate lingered so palpably. Yes, they had indeed been prepared to grab and torture him before either dying or being rescued. They’d been prepared for what resistance he could put up. And yes, for personal reasons and for the sake of shared history they’d made recently, that had _not_ gone over well with Loki.

There was also that constant and eerie realization that he’d fallen under Loki’s protection on this one whether he liked it or not. _As I would have done for Thor_. That had hit a nerve or five, sharp and jangly. Thor no longer needed his too-smart little brother watching out for him, as a general rule. So he’d drawn the replacement position, meanwhile. Phil was not sure how he felt about that.

On the other hand, with them tooling out into the wilderness hunting Nazis like the old days of the Commandoes, it was probably not the worst situation to be in right now.

“Including what Hendrik said… It’s about sixty years old, this village. Bucolic, maddeningly quiet, not on the maps. They prefer their privacy or so they claim, and fought for it against the local and state governments. Not the only such village to do so after apartheid, so they don’t gain undue notice for their position. It worked out well for them, apparently. But that’s the trick for us. It’s entirely residential, or so it seems.” Loki scanned the horizon for any more roaming animals, unaware and uninterested in whatever might be bothering Coulson. “We’re not going to run in and set fire to a bunch of presumably civilian homes on the assumption they all goose-step after dark.”

“No.” That wasn’t up for debate. Even if someone in that village had murderers on standby, it didn’t condemn everyone. It couldn’t. “But we can’t exactly go straight in like we’re judging towns for the Village of the Year award, either.”

“What a shame neither of us are particularly good at skulking about in shadows.” Loki deadpanned the words, tapping the gas on his way up a decent hill. “Might have been a decent option.”

“Guess we can bear it in mind.” He had to give up a little laugh, still unnerved by the reasons they had this much information.

. . .

_Earlier_ -

Coulson shut the gory toolkit without a word, looking at the guy tied to some sort of ruined industrial structure inside an old garage a couple miles away from the hotel. It made for an awkward chair, and not one someone was going to roll or kick their way out of. Much less tear themselves free. If the prisoner had been Banner himself… well, he’d get out, of course. But he’d take the building down with him doing it.

He watched Loki examine the guy’s bonds with an expression so carefully blank he looked utterly inhuman. The guy - Hendrik - winced away any time he came close. There were only a couple of injuries, and by the look of them, it looked like most of it came from being brawled into captivity. Loki had admitted he’d torn the guy out of a car. Coulson could just guess what that had looked like. And yeah, that was probably going to leave a few marks. The rest seemed minor.

It was the look in the guy’s eyes that put the hook in him. He thought of that lab technician with a wince, and that had been a mostly unintentional escalation. Hendrik had a primal fear etched sharp in his face, a mortal that had seen a wrathful God in the flesh and now survived only by that deity’s whimsy. That, and whatever had been said before Coulson had been brought into this, had been more than enough to break him.

_And this is nicer, almost vaguely friendly Loki_ , he thought, more than a little unsettled himself. _Doing this because otherwise I would have paid out blood through my teeth_.

That pushed a cold fingernail under his ribcage, just to make sure he got it. He put this in motion, his need to go after the root of whatever old horror Natasha had found the tracks of. He realized he still had his hand on the torturer’s kit, took it off and looked at the guy. Trying to remember that he was a murderer, ready to do the same to him. “I want to know about the village. I want to know about Duquesne.”

The brown eyes flicked towards him, glazed and frightened. “It’s my home,” he said, slurring the words a little. He flicked that glazed stare between his two captors. “I’ll die for my home.”

“Tell me about it.”

Hendrik almost didn’t. The shadows lengthened around them, dark and cold. And then he did.

. . .

The land had been a gift to the master’s family - the Bruins served not only the Reich but secretive Hydra with enough devotion that when the great war began to fall apart and the survivors of all factions had to go to ground, they had this bolthole long since ready. Many top families kept some sort of escape hole in case the house of cards fell. South America, Africa, even within the States. Their escape was in the name of the corporation they had built up during the war, not under the old Bruin’s own. But it didn’t matter - one was the other, indivisible. Imperial Industries was _not_ a fictitious shell. It moved state of the art technology for the Nazi state under utterly legal pretense, same as Krupp and Volkswagen and many others. With a name as bland as theirs, however, Imperial Industries was able to find more open doors after the fall of the Reich than some.

As the corporation thrived, the Bruin patriarch put countless amounts of his money into developing the South African land. He built his central manor first, of course, a sprawling ranch compound with a hunter’s shed and a barn, and surrounded by smaller but still no less grand homes for his closest friends and confidants. One home lay empty, then, despite the care with which it had been made. It was meant for Bruin’s dear friend Schmidt. It became his memorial instead.

Arnaud Bruin’s father held power only for a short time, an interim leader who fussily watched over the place as the patriarch finally waned with his advanced age. He had not been a strong financial leader, the father, and so the corporation waned as well. He had, however, cast out invitations to other Afrikaner families waiting and looking for a place to belong. The right people, with the right ideals. They moved in gladly, and the compound, now a town, began to thrive on its own terms. That was his first enduring contribution. He had been weaker, but not worthless.

Meanwhile, Hydra’s councils kept to their own, but they all survived by virtue of never being collected in one place. Each head kept to itself, and did not always align fully with the rest. This was now the secret heart of what the Bruin patriarch liked to call ‘Imperial Hydra,’ not to be confused with the diffuse thing the cultists had later become under Gideon Malick’s leadership. He sniffed at the re-igniting of the fervor for the primal god, found it a kind of heresy worth of derision. There was no need to look to mankind’s past overlords - Bruin believed, as Schmidt did, in controlling and guiding the future of their DNA.

When Arnaud was a child, and his grandfather was dwindling away at the edge of death, they had made one more great decision - the manor was to be sacrificed. They would move the family into the home meant for Schmidt, making the memorial into a living memory. The manor itself and its little satellites would become the testing grounds for certain new technology. New medicines. Everything and anything they could move through the tunnels built within the SHIELD infestation prepared decades earlier. They bought more land, too, and kept the purchases secret.

The Bruin patriarch could not be brought into this new supremacy, the next stage of Hydra’s future. He finally died when Arnaud was in his teens, the first few tests meant to lengthen a life having barely stolen him a scant few months, and them in agony. Here then the father without his rock began to falter. And Arnaud, armed with a delight in the old sciences and the way they became something new, found disappointment in his father’s weaknesses.

There had been a hunting accident a few years later. A dreadful thing, completely unexpected. Properly sorrowful and weighted with new responsibilities, Arnaud took his place as head of the Imperial. He met with the other heads of Hydra just once, swearing his oath to revitalize his corporation and his little town in their name, and he went about serving that promise with ruthless efficiency.

The town thrived. SHIELD fell, leaving the underpinning experimental structures he helped build untouched. By then, Arnaud’s secret plan for the future of the world was tightly kept and in full swing. It would only be a matter of time before they would be ready to reveal it.

. . .

“Reveal _what_?” Coulson figured he knew, considering. He wanted to know if Hendrik did. If the village did.

Hendrik shook his head, trembling. “The great secret. What we strive for. The return of Hydra’s supremacy, alive and ready to command.” He took a rattling breath. “We are not told exactly what it means. We are only given pride that it’s coming.” He spat the rest, fervent. “And I believe in it! The next Reich! Hail Hydra! Mankind first!”

The abandoned garage seemed to freeze, causing Hendrik to catch his breath. He seemed to know exactly where the chill was emanating from, tensing his muscles visibly and turning away from the pissed off entity looming nearby. Coulson glanced at Loki. He was calm enough, still restrained even, but it was obvious now some of how he held sway over the guy without a touch.

_Probably froze one of his kidneys into a hard little rock around three am. I don’t think that’s a metaphor_. _Or an exaggeration._

Loki glanced back, eyes glittering. He shook his head once, slight. No, Hendrik didn’t know the final secret. That Bruin was working on bringing back Grandpa’s good buddy, by any means necessary. That he’d very probably already succeeded, based on Romanoff’s intel.

Coulson looked at the guy again. “I want a rough outline of the village. A map.”

“They’ll see you coming.” A whisper now. He still wouldn’t look at his captor. “The Hydra has a thousand eyes.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I wanna know where they got the portable johns just in case. Road food, you know how it is.”

Releasing his tension slightly, Loki rolled his eyes.

“Give it up. And maybe you’ll live to see it again.”

“They’re going to kill you both.”

The air dropped another five degrees. Shadows seemed to lengthen and grow deeper yet, the promise of something awful hidden within them. Hendrik shivered like a shock victim, uncontrollable.

A few minutes later, they had a rough map and an idea of the village’s defenses.

. . .

Loki slowed the truck to almost crawling speeds, now less than ten miles out from the village limits. They’d skirted around the edge of the park, finding low ground and some decent remaining tree cover while heading for a deep valley around the back of the village. But there was nothing to be done for it - for now they were traveling mostly exposed. Coulson had, for the time being, nixed the idea of having Loki try to run full invisibility or even some camouflage under the logic of saving his energy in case things went pear-shaped. If there were drones handling remote monitoring, and there probably were, they’d been made miles back. He was studying the horizon, mild. “You may have had a point, Coulson.”

“Yeah?” He was doing the same. Whatever had Loki on alert, he couldn’t spot it. He could tell the alien was right, though. Something crawled along his skin, the psychic sense of being watched.

“We’re going to get ambushed.” He said it the way a human might have remarked on the need to buy another roll of paper towel. “So much for skulking in. What was that about the Village of the Year award?”

“I was making a crack abo-“

A finger tapped on the wheel. “Ah, yes. _Hot Fuzz_. I watched it. It was… fair, although we have to admit I’m not exactly the intended audience. Its inspiration was better.”

Unreality crawled over Phil’s scalp. “ _The Wicker Man_ , with Christopher Lee?”

“I actually rather liked that one. It was imaginative and possessed of certain subtleties.” The corner of Loki’s lip quirked once at Phil’s open disbelief. “However, I expect the droning madness of petty fascists murdering undesirable interlopers for ‘the greater good’ is about to become somewhat more immediately relevant.”

“I swear to God, Loki, if you’re about to suggest driving in like we’re in an action movie as I shoot two guns in the air at the same time while jumping out of the car, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Quite the mental image, I have to admit.” Still placid. “I have a somewhat more controversial idea. Let’s see what they do when given opportunity.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Coulson stared at Loki, deadly close to laughing in his face out of shock. “You spent half of last night cheerfully breaking people so we _wouldn’t_ get grabbed. Your whole _point_ was about not getting screwed by having a rock solid plan.”

“I was slightly more concerned about being being grabbed separately. That could have worked for them in the short term, I said. We see them coming now. We have critical information about the village and their goals they don’t know we have. They have no choice now but to take us together, in the open. And I feel fairly sure they don’t know what I am. Certainly not all of my capability. Their compartmentalization works against them here.” Loki glanced at him. “Nor will they know all the little new upgrades _you_ have.”

“So for now we just eat it.”

“Oh, hardly. I told you. Preparation matters. And we adapt extremely well. Let us look at them by daylight.” The placidity broke with a feral grin. “In my experience, when permitted the upper hand by a tactically stronger but smaller force, attackers overplay themselves with almost _hilarious_ usefulness.”

“Is there an alternative option?”

The rear tires seemed to blow out as Coulson looked back to see one of the hastily buried explosive caltrops fall to the side. By the sensation rippling through the truck, there was no actual damage to the rubber, but the trap kicked them airborne in an attempt to roll the truck. They liked usable salvage, he guessed. Loki kept a firm grip on the wheel, handling the sudden slide and sharp fishtail with professional control. The vehicle tilted, but didn’t topple over. Coulson kept a death grip on the oh-shit handle above the passenger window, glancing around for the next strike. Loki stayed calm, still grinning. “I don’t think there’s much of one, no.”

A second later, the engine guttered and died out, leaving them in silence as they waited to see what their welcome party looked like. The low hills suddenly filled with several dozen armed men in natty, old-style uniforms. Dark greys and browns, with sharp collars and no insignia. Not for outriders. The resemblance, however, was quite clear. Historic, really.

Phil felt immediate nausea looking at them, the worst of all the History Channel’s World War II marathons come back to life. “Terrific.”


	15. Chaos Theory

Loki did everything in his considerable power to not outright grin down at the plain steel handcuffs adorning his wrists. His human friend had a similar pair, and he’d seen the man tighten up his muscles in tune with the reliable old magician’s escape trick. Between that bit of give and the useful gimmick of simply snapping the mechanical appendage off for a moment, neither of them were what Loki would consider ‘properly restrained.’ Perfect. The first tiny shred of useful incompetence. They _assumed_ , their captors. The first tactical gain belonged to SHIELD.

He rather liked idiots, in the proper context.

Coulson didn’t look nearly as pleased as Loki felt, however. His chin stayed down and his gaze kept carefully scanning their stiffly marching guard as they were led into the village proper. He looked annoyed with their current turn of events, which Loki regarded with bemusement. He was taking this in with entirely too much tension, Loki felt, but it was also somewhat consistent with his character, considering the visual around them.

The fact that the marching guards that joined them at the village border were in what he dimly recognized as a unique variant of the Reich’s Afrikakorps uniform, with its olive color and stylized insignia on the shoulder straps, was obviously not doing much for Coulson’s mood. The insignia was blatant - a green version of the ornate Hydra symbol, its tentacles intertwined with a simpler black swastika. “No subtlety in _das vaderland_ ,” said Loki conversationally, deliberately being an ass to see the reaction he would get. “We’re all friendly Nazis here. Snap a salute, get a discount on your move-in rate.”

One of the guards sharply jabbed him in the side with the butt of his rifle, a well-practiced move with painful intent. Loki staggered and puffed air, offering up a wounded laugh. On human instinct, Coulson reached out both with his shackled hands to grab him and help him straighten up. The reaction helped sell his simple and entirely non-magical illusion, although the fast blink Coulson gave at realizing what he was doing could have been a tell in a much higher stakes situation. Not with these fools, however. He fell silent anyway, remaining hunched protectively with his elbows guarding his sides. The jackboot liked that. Damn near put a spring in his step.

Loki studied the human’s face as he continued to play the wounded bird and resolved to himself that it would be this one to get his arm broken first. If not more, depending.

. . .

Coulson’s stomach dropped a little as the dusty pathways around the village gave way to neatly cared for tamped earth and stone. The homes were brightly colored, visibly Dutch-influenced and there were quite a number of them lining narrow streets perfectly designed for efficiency and community. This was a living village of hundreds. Handfuls of residents were already clumped together outside on sparse, artificial lawns and white stone walks, watching the arrival of the new prisoners. He kept his eyes to the ground at first, then glanced up as they began to approach the high-gated manor and began to wonder.

Some of the residents lined the path with the stiff fervor that filled the old newsreels, true believers who stared at the two arrivals with a steely loathing Coulson could almost taste on the hot, dry air. Loki had been dead on - they were already less than human to many of these people. A volunteer militia, strapped together by that faith into an outright homage of the Wehrmacht. But here and there, he saw children pressed back against someone with a studiously blank face, a mother or a father’s arm draped protectively across the child’s chest. They furtively caught his eye now and again, the child or the parent - and they looked away first.

He clutched onto that, lifting his head a little more to study the gate they approached. It was a forbidding thing, thick black steel topped with chunky but sharp wires that ran along the rest of the thick stone walls that contained the place. The ornate Dutch-style flower patterns that dotted the black bars did nothing to soften its appearance. It looked colder yet, like an orphanage in Hell.

Coulson could pick out the sight of more men inside the walls. _Guess we rate the super-sized welcome party,_ he thought. _Man, I always wanted to be the cool kid_.

_Just maybe not quite like this_.

His fist clenched, then loosened again. Muttered Afrikaans between the leader of their captors and a radio in the gate got them through a moment later. They were marched carefully up to the front of the manor, centered with dramatic flair before its dark windows, and Coulson would go to his grave _swearing_ he felt the telepathic strength of Loki mentally rolling his eyes at the theatricality of their presentation.

“Master Bruin!” The lead guard snapped the original military Wehrmacht salute, and then, naturally, followed it up with the well-known Nazi salute. “I present your captives, for the glory of Hydra and the Party!”

Light caught the shock of white hair that crowned the deceptively small figure that casually let himself out of a side door. Bruin wore a variant of the dark Panzer dress uniform. It hit Coulson with a trained historian’s visceral shock and dismay - the uniforms were a goddamn hodgepodge, no sense or reason for most of it. Panzer, Werhmacht, Afrikakorps for the outriders. Hell, if he paid attention long enough, he’d probably spot some Kriegsmarine on a couple lackeys, despite the village being landlocked. It was all chosen for the visual. The intent was genuine, to be sure, looking at the faces of the people that wore them. But Bruin was no longer hewing to the original standards of dress. This was a man driven by optics. No wonder they were focusing on highly stylized, visible ways of restoring their vision of Hydra.

_I bet he_ really _dug the Riefenstahl flicks_. His follow-up thought about that was considerably more crude, involving a box of tissues and some quality moisturizer. There had been only a handful of people in Coulson’s life he genuinely hated on sight, and Bruin just bought himself a place on the list.

Arnaud Bruin crossed the lawn, centering himself before the prisoners although still several long strides away from the group. Small, stout, but in strong shape. His hands were clasped behind him, and his chin was sharply up in the air to give his aging profile a more ‘noble’ countenance. Feeling petty, Coulson noted this maneuver also helped disguise the man’s insistent and probably genetic double chin.

_Should have looked for the genetic design plans for that little flaw, you Kampf-sucking jackass_. _I bet it makes you crazy_.

The sensation of pettiness grew like heartburn. He let it, watching Arnaud study the pair of them from along his uplifted nose. “Your intent, gentlemen, is to threaten our good land and good prosperity.”

This time, the sensation of mentally rolling eyes as hard as he could, was all his own.

“You will not be permitted this heathen crime. Instead, you will be granted one mercy. I will show you what you came to see - our strength, reborn in full in this new and vital century - and then you will be cleanly executed.”

Loki’s subvocal snort of low derision quickly became the weirdest way Coulson ever felt comforted. The silence stretched and grew in the yard as if that statement had been intended some immediate follow-up. Around them, the guards shifted their weight and tried to not glance at each other. It had been.

Bruin bristled. He shared a look with a taller, blonde soldier, then turned slightly to look back at the manor house. The attendant leaned in, muttering something that made the expression on the master’s face darken. “Now!” came the fury, boiling hot.

The attendant seemed to flutter, unsure what to do.

The door at the side of the manor creaked open again. Coulson felt the nerves light up along his arm, watched the booted feet step on the grass first. Then the rest.

Dark, swept-back hair atop a high brow that looked prone to a widow’s peak when he grew older. The boy’s face was fine and sharp, lips tightly sealed as he kept his face down, watching where he was walking instead. Coulson recognized him immediately, knowing all the old files of Johann Schmidt by heart. Like Bruin, he was wearing a Panzer’s dress uniform… but the boy’s coat was sloppy. The collar hung open, revealing the shirt underneath. There were no buttons, nor lapels. It slid across his shoulders, looking more like a greaser’s deliberately ill-fitting jacket than a commander’s pride.

“Boy!” Bruin snapped the noun with all the import of a command. He pointed to the grass near him, a few steps behind. The lack of care in the kid’s appearance seemed to infuriate him further. “Come and see these men who traveled so far to look at you.”

Sullen, the young clone of the Red Skull stepped across the grass to where he’d been ordered. He still didn’t look up.

“Like his greatness himself, the boy is stubborn. Smart lads are. Schmidt was an intractable troublemaker in his youth, a thief and reprobate before coming to the glory of Herr Hitler and then to the responsibility of Hydra. That made him wise, but only later. After his lessons in the hard-worn trials of a long and fruitful life.” Bruin made the insults sound magnanimous in his clipped Afrikaner accent. “We have permitted him some slack within which to grow. He resents this, of course. Boys do. But we must protect even as we shape our future.”

The boy lifted his head, eyes still lidded. Coulson felt a chill as he saw the small collar looped tautly around the thin neck, noting what looked like at least two or three tiny shape-charges at regular intervals. Then the eyes widened and he looked back at them, and Coulson sensed Loki stir in response. The boy’s head lifted further, like Bruin’s, but in defiance. He looked at them evenly now, neck bared. _See what they did to me. See what_ slack _I’m given_.

Coulson thought of what Radcliffe had said, the words clanging and screaming in his skull like a warning bell. The fuzzy science of cloning was bound by the liquid rules of chaos theory. _You’re not replicating the entire set of circumstances that create a given mindset. It’s impossible._

“The collar is a necessity, I’m afraid. For his own safety. He is not ready for the world yet, though in a child’s resolute wisdom he has believed otherwise. A wonderful piece of hardware, entirely secure. No accidents possible.” Bruin smiled, pleased with himself. “This is our new Johann-“

They both read the words clear on the boy’s trembling lips, the shock thrumming like wildfire down Coulson’s spine. _That’s not my name_.

“-And he will lead us back into the light, to regain the control over a world gone mad.”

“You sent the messages,” said Loki straight to the boy, ignoring Bruin. “I’m sorry. They didn’t make it from here intact. But they left a useable trail. So we came.”

The boy stared at him, openly startled by the address. Bruin all but snarled at the alien. “ _We_ permitted the trail to remain, so you might grasp tight to foolishness and behold the new head of the great Hydra that will yet rise!”

Loki looked at the master as if he were a bug, then back at the boy. He didn’t say anything this time. Coulson looked up at him, sharing a quick glance a second later. They were on the same page. Nothing about this was quite what they had expected to find. This ‘Imperial Hydra’s’ plan had succeeded - but not fully.

Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, was still lost. This was someone… else.

But Hydra still twitched here, just alive enough to be venomous.

“You have witnessed our triumph.” Bruin tugged at his waist, dismissive and secure in his own alternative interpretation of the facts. A gun was in his hand. He did not look back as he held it over his shoulder, finger on the safety. “Boy. I grant you the gift of executing our enemies. Today you will take one more step towards your great destiny.” He frowned when he sensed no movement, but he didn’t turn. “Refusal will mean you admit to _imperfection_.”

The boy glanced at them both, suddenly turning calm. Then he reached up and plucked the explosive collar from his neck, revealing cold and ready intelligence behind the resentment of his users. Coulson watched it happen with wide eyes, waiting for the damn thing to explode in the kid’s hand. Instead, he snapped it back shut with a flick of his wrist and tossed it near Bruin’s feet. A practiced move, it looked like. Something the kid had been prepared to do for a long time, waiting for the right moment.

It imploded with a sharp crack of ozone, burning Bruin’s boots instantly. The man yelled in pained surprise, the Nazi militia froze. The world seemed to hold still.

The boy broke free from that frozen time and charged straight for Bruin, barreling into him with unnerving strength for someone so small. He tore something from the man’s hip - Coulson got a glimpse of another kind of keycard hung from a silver chain, probably a master key - and then he kept right on going in a sharp twist back, past the manor door from which he’d emerged and onward, scrambling up over a smaller chain fence like a spider monkey and disappearing into one of the back administrative buildings that made up the manor’s domain. Bruin stayed in his collapse, stunned and hurt and showing now his full age. Coulson, surprised, thought of paper tigers, ferocious at only one angle and broken by a puff of wind.

Coulson looked to his side next, now working on already wriggling out of his cuffs as Loki moved. The handcuffs on the thin, pale wrists broke apart like glass, and he reached casually out to his side to grab the Nazi who had butted him with a rifle. He broke the man’s arm with a single twist of his grip, never changing expression, and then let the shocked figure drop like a ragdoll. His marching companion whirled to defend his fallen partner and was flung wordlessly into the far wall.

A shout came from Coulson’s side as their guards realized the full extent of how badly things had just gone wrong for them. He elbowed a guy in the face with his good arm, feeling a cheekbone slam into the sharp bone and hearing the faint crack with satisfaction.

He hit the next guard who tried to recover the situation, rearing back with his left arm and hammering it out once towards his attacker in what was all but a rocket punch, the artificial limb clenched and taut to absorb every ounce of impact without damaging it. The Nazi didn’t go down with quite the same flair as someone who’d just gotten casually shotputted by a frost giant, but Coulson liked the results anyway.

Loki flicked out a hand and snapped a handful of words in a language Coulson didn’t know, the harshly guttural sounds hurting his ears. On a well-educated hunch, he ducked in closer to the alien to see what the results of the spell were going to be.

He had to admit, they were pretty spectacular. A visible rainbow of sharp wind and dry ice cut through the atmosphere around them much like a small and barely controlled tornado, shearing off the grass and shoving away the bulk of their attackers. The effect was violent enough to leave cuts and tear uniforms, but it wasn’t just the one pulse. A second and a third rising scream came to drive off anyone who tried to recover too quickly, the frozen cyclone scraping skin and leaving frostbite. One hardy individual tried to lunge into the cyclone to get at them, found his hair caught and torn first by the relentless wind and the rest of him flung back.

“Life inside a Nutribullet,” said Coulson, not feeling particularly upset by the sight of a couple dozen Nazis getting torn up by a mystic wind.

“I would have referred to it as a small taste of scenic Jotunheim in a particularly bad winter, but that’s perspective for you. Come on.” Loki tugged at him, already moving fast towards the path the young clone had disappeared onto.

Coulson jogged after him, the sound of the thick gate slamming shut causing him to look back at the rout and at the men now banging and tugging at the other side of the portal. He realized he knew who had shut the thing. “So, where are we on the adaptive scenario matrix or whatever it is you like to go on about?”

Loki laughed once, a small and jackal-like bark. “We’re at the stage called ‘ _just roll with it._ ’”


	16. U-147

Coulson and Loki slammed their way into one of the back buildings that made up Bruin’s sprawling lair, following the sporadic trail of bowled over figures in uniform. A few had visibly given up, getting out of the way and running elsewhere at the sight of them. Coulson had grabbed a gun off of one of these in a minor fracas, keeping it clasped in the down and ready position, following his meat shield of a friend once more. But the path they took was fairly uneventful this time. Still too overwhelmed by his thoughts, he didn’t bother to feel disappointed. Not likely this was over yet.

Loki kept a fast pace, sniffing out some sort of trail beyond just the startled human wreckage, and leading them deep into where machines whirred and hummed. Another server room was below them, the heart of this facility. Maybe even the heart of the village.

The door was unlocked. Loki took one side of it, watching Coulson take the other. Coulson nudged the door open with his gun, keeping the muzzle down as he looked in and then blinking. Loki pushed the door open the rest of the way, getting them both an eyeful of the scene.

This was some sort of monitoring station, a security hub for the entire local area. Coulson swept the room again with another look, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. There were racks of blinking machines strapped together haphazardly by colored connections, all of it kept behind a wire-link cage whose padlock was broken.

There was a wastebasket next to the monitoring console itself. Coulson saw a small dark Panzer jacket stuffed partway into it, obviously forgotten. Its former wearer, however, was halfway up through the ceiling, one foot jammed solidly against a cooling pipe near the top of the wall. Rustling and banging came through the vent the rest of the kid was in. A second later, he dropped down with perfect balance onto his toes, part of a long yellow ethernet cord in his hand. Wild-eyed and now in just a dirty, grease-stained t-shirt and smudged pants, he looked at the two SHIELD agents and then disappeared under the desk with the cord. A muffled voice wafted out. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Yeah, well. We do a lot of stuff we’re probably not supposed to.” Coulson shrugged, holstering the gun. “You need help? What are you doing, anyway?”

“The master said you two were from SHIELD?” The face peeked out, tight and nervous. It heightened the slight trace of an Afrikaans accent. Coulson was dimly surprised they hadn’t forced a Germanic one on him yet. “They said a couple years ago they broke the SHIELD. They were very proud of the operation.”

“We’re persistent.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Loki under his breath in a way fully intended to be overheard.

The kid looked at them both and disappeared again. “I don’t need help.”

“In general, or specific to your current tech support issue?” Loki leaned against the doorway as Coulson stepped in further. “In either case, you might consider otherwise. We are, underwhelming appearance to the contrary, here to find out what’s going on and assist. We do not often fail at this, I assure you.”

Something banged. The desk shook. “Right now I’m shutting down the network between us and Site B, because in another minute Control is going to find out something’s off pattern here and shut down the system, and if that happens, this place is really going to riot and the wrong people are going to get hurt. Right now a lot of families are barricaded in their homes, waiting for an all clear. The militia is focused here.” Something beeped in the console. The kid popped up for a split second to scan the monitors before vanishing one more time. “The militia has a procedure if Control indicates a total purge is necessary. It’s exactly what you think. I can’t let that get sent.”

“Not everyone in the village is on board, yeah. I saw some different faces out there. Looked scared. I can get that. Those are the people we want to do something for.” Coulson tugged open the wire cage, looking at the stacked servers. He filed away Site B to ask about it at a better moment.

“Don’t touch those. They’re alarmed. I have to reroute a bunch of stuff before anything can be moved.” The kid emerged in another flash, beginning to run his hands across the console like a piano player. Despite being all of about maybe eleven, Coulson guessed, he looked haggard enough right now to not get carded for a beer.

“Where’s the cord going to?”

The kid paused almost imperceptibly. “Laptop in my room up above, took eight months to work the cord through the vents. They let me keep it. It’s old. Still a mistake to give it to me.” He puffed a breath, apparently having staved off the system alert, then got back to work at a slightly slower pace. He whirled away from the desk and shoved past Coulson, yanking wires free from servers. “You want to help, in _general_? A lot of people need to get out of here. They need to get away from Bruin’s loyalists, and Control. They’ll do anything for that. They just want to be safe.”

“Okay. I’ll think about how to get that done.” He sensed Loki’s look and turned to take it in. _Would have been a good time for a stronger plan_ , said the glance.

He stared back. _Nothing to be done for it now_. “What’s Site B? What’s Control?”

“This would go a lot faster without questions.” The kid froze, then his brow furrowed in hard. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I… I don’t trust a lot of people.”

“Okay.” Coulson said the single word in a calm, even way to tell the kid he wasn’t upset. He caught up to something the kid had said - he didn’t get to sleep in the manor. He slept somewhere in this cold, antiseptic building behind the manor. Like another machine. Or, more specifically, a lab experiment. “You know, I’m being rude, too. I should have asked what your name was, first. It’s not what the guy said, right?”

“I don’t… really have a name. I guess. That one’s like a title. I hate it. That’s not who I am. I don’t want it.” The kid grimaced. “They gave me a label when I was made. U-147. Sometimes they call me by that.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to do that. You’re not a thing.”

Something broke in the kid’s face for a millisecond, making him look intensely like the scared child he was, then it froze over again. He went back to the desk, studying the scrolling monitors. “Site B is where Control is and where they do all the major labwork. This is, well, live field work, I guess you could say. I was made at B, they brought me here to live just a few years ago. I’m not completely certain where it is, that’s why I’m scrambling the systems here. That’ll tell me. But it’s not that far. More land the Bruins bought decades ago. I think it’s still here in South Africa.” _Tap-tap-tap_. “And Control is… well, it’s Control. It’s a centralized AI science unit that operates the ‘Imperial Hydra’ network. Mostly via closed intranet and controlled packets between facilities. That’s how I was piggybacking the messages out, riding packets. They unplugged it from the internet immediately after the Ultron thing. I guess it didn’t like that, but there’s not a lot it can do about it. It’s creepy when it talks to you.”

Coulson and Loki shared a look. Oddly tired, Loki said, “Hel, I suppose he’s not on an old iPod, after all.”

“What? _Oh_.” Coulson rolled his eyes at himself, catching up to the apparent randomness of the comment. Arnim Zola, still frying circuitboards with his presence. Or at least some iteration of him. “That guy.” The kid looked at him. “If it’s what we think, he used to be a human. Back in World War II. A friend of Schmidt’s, a rogue scientist. He was sort of alive in another mainframe, helped the plan to wreck SHIELD and destroyed himself in the process. We’re guessing this is another copy.”

Something tweaked in the kid’s face, some realization kicking him in the gut and leaving a trace of horror. “That explains a _lot_ of things.”

Loki shifted in the doorway. “So what’s strong little you going to do about Site B all on your own?”

Another pause, this one awkward. “I… don’t know.”

“I see. Would you like to tell us you don’t need help again?”

That got him a hot look, feisty and trapped. Loki raised a hand, contrite. All he’d wanted was to make a point, not make an enemy. “You and Agent Coulson here are going to get on like a house on fire,” he said in a tone of acidic good cheer. Then he jerked his thumb towards the door. “On that note, I’m going to drag him out of the room for a moment. When we come back in, we’ll have some better idea how to help the situation from here.”

The kid looked at him, sober now. “And I’ll know where Site B is.”

. . .

“Your conundrum is obvious. The easiest solution is call in certain of SHIELD’s resources immediately to assist with the refugees and contain the village’s combatants. But that puts us back in Mace’s crosshairs and the aftermath of _that_ is going to be emotionally comparable to being eaten alive by Hela’s own hounds while strapped to a lava-heated marble table.”

Not being Asgardian, the visual still hit Phil with cinematic clarity. “And if we don’t, I’m a selfish bastard who makes the wrong decision to cover my own ass so I can keep going on the mission in the way I picked out.” He grinned a little, dour, at the arched eyebrow. “It’s not a conundrum, Loki. Bawling me out aside - and yeah, you had some points - there’s still that line I’m not gonna cross yet.”

“All right,” came the careful response. “But I also know you. You’re not leaving the trail so soon. So how do you play this?”

“Call the cavalry and get back on the run once I know things are going to be okay here. Yeah, that bit with the hellhounds-“

“Hela’s hounds.”

“ _Same difference_. Anyway, that’s going to make it a lot worse once Mace catches up to us once we’re done. But some things are worth the aftermath. Worth the fight. And I feel like we need this Site B locked down. Ethically, if nothing else.” Coulson winced. “Am I the only one super horrified by what it looks like they did to the kid?”

“No.” Loki didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on that, glancing down the hall as if looking for an attack. “But we need more information in that regard, as well. He will be reluctant to share it, considering. And you sound like it’s yet going to be the two of us striking this secondary location.”

“Three of us.” The small, dark-haired head popped out of the door. “Site B is near the border to Namibia, buried deep within the _Riemvasmaak_. I’m not giving you the actual co-ordinates until we’re on the road.”

“Oh, that’s _so_ much better,” Loki deadpanned. “Any idea how well the place is staffed?”

“No. Are you going to call your people?” The kid sounded almost desperate. “Please.”

Coulson thought over the logistics. SHIELD might be centrally US, but they still had contacts all over the world. There would be a humanitarian hopper they could get activated out of Botswana within a half hour, with a small group of specialized international agents out of Johannesburg to help with security around the same time. Oh yeah, hell on the paperwork, but that was on the bottom of his list of concerns. He planned out exactly how to word the action to get butts moving in the right way and then said, “Yeah. Loki?”

“Mm.”

Coulson glanced at the boy, reorganizing himself. “Kid, are you done down here?”

“Mostly. I have some stuff I want to scrape, stuff that needs to be melted, and I need to grab my bag.”

 _Melted_? “Okay. Loki, I’m asking you to go back up and try to keep the militia contained and away from the non-combatants until I get backup in range. Kid, you do what you need, then-“

“I’m going to help people get ready. We had a plan for our own evacuation if something happened.” Firmness entered the kid’s voice, something solid in the kid’s back that made him straighten up. “We’ve been working on it for a while. We’re just… kind of adapting on the fly now.”

Coulson looked at the kid, then at Loki. “Which of us is he gonna get along with? Anyway, fine, do your thing, then follow Loki. You’ll be safest moving behind him.”

“Okay. Do you guys know that’s the name of-“

The answer came in a tired unison. “ _Yes_.”

. . .

Coulson emerged from the facility about fifteen minutes later, still tapping away at his phone as he finished doing what he could to coordinate the arrival of help. The sounds of general chaos were familiar and almost comforting, and he looked up to see what he guessed was about twenty banged-up Nazis in torn uniforms trussed up and laying along the grass. Thudding noises came from a nearby shed whose locks had been snapped off and the hinges frozen. He had a suspicion Bruin was in there, neatly corralled for whatever justice might come. The front of the manor looked blackened.

 _That’s why we keep the guy. In a ethically questionable pinch, you can’t really argue he doesn’t get results when it counts_.

Mace was going to have acid reflux, and maybe even a full cardiac by the end of the day. Coulson thought about that and the outcome it was going to have for himself, then accepted it with relative serenity. Maybe he could get a job doing history lectures after he’d finished tearing up the South African wilderness. He jogged a few steps through the now broken steel gate and saw that the village was relatively intact. Loki was standing watch over a visible split in the populace - a handful of terrified and disarmed Nazi militia that had still been in the village when the other shoe dropped, unsure what to do next against a singular force they didn’t understand, and a milling group of people, many of whom were talking to the kid in hushed voices. Some of them glanced at Coulson, widening their eyes in recognition and then in relief.

Loki glanced at him, hands in his suit pockets like he was waiting for a bus, not a chance to dropkick another Nazi that decided he wanted to take a shot at the golden gloves. “What’s the ETA?”

Coulson watched the kid as he talked to a younger boy, who hugged him and pushed something into his hand a moment later. Awkward, the cloned boy shifted the light satchel that hung over one shoulder. Even for a bug out bag, it didn’t seem like the kid had much to take away from here. That hit him somehow, realizing that not once since twigging to something else going on here had he ever thought of the kid as Schmidt. Except for the eerie ghost trapped in the boy’s face, the dead Nazi who had rebuilt Hydra from the dust of legends simply wasn’t here. He was just a kid that needed help. A scarily smart kid, who could already smack into a guy like a linebacker. Phil realized he had some questions about that. “Another five minutes before we get some people on the ground here. I wanna be in the truck right after that.”

“Easier to do with a distraction.” Loki glanced at the kid as he came back up to join the group. His small hand stayed tightly clenched around whatever he’d been given. “They’re organized?”

“Yeah.” The boy looked up at Coulson, his other hand going into his pocket and coming up with an old Nokia, of the hard-shelled plastic kind that used to be virtually indestructible. “Did you need anything else from inside that place?”

“SHIELD is going to want a full report, it’d be easier if we had access to their onsite files.”

The kid unzipped the bag and showed him a single hard drive that had obviously been pulled from that big server rack in the security monitoring station. “Got that. Any physical evidence?”

“Ah, no. Site B’s where we need to look for most of that, I’m thinking.” _And maybe yourself, kid, but I’m not treating you like a case number, either_.

“Okay. There’s a lot of stuff inside there I don’t really know about, just so you know. They made sure I only saw a few rooms.” He bit his lip, then looked down and hit some buttons on the phone. “So. This is getting melted.”

“Wh-“ A soft but insistent _whoomp_ noise came from behind him. He whirled, recognizing the subtler sounds of total destruction. “What did you do?”

The Nokia got whipped towards the manor in a high, overhanded throw like a professional pitcher. “Started an implosion chain. It’ll take a few minutes, so that’s probably the distraction you need. I hijacked part of the purge protocol. The village will be fine, though. Even the manor. It’s just that facility.”

“I like this boy.” Loki rocked back on his heels an inch, visibly amused.

“That’s frightening.” The kid looked at Coulson when he said it, face tight with new worry. “It’s an in-joke. He’s a little destructive when you just let him loose under his own morals.”

“I saw.” The brow furrowed again. Something was bothering him, but he looked away again. “Do you hear that?”

“I do.” Loki lifted his chin, glancing at the sky. “Inbound, right on schedule.”

Coulson squinted, looking around for where the rented truck had been stowed when they’d been dragged in. Being that their captors had managed to fire it right back up after they surrendered, it didn’t have any permanent damage. Except whatever had been scraped off the tires by the abrupt defensive driving. He could probably still smooth that over with the rental company. “Everybody ready to scoot?”

“Don’t even wish to wait and say hi?”

“Probably not the best plan, Loki. I realize it’s probably the more responsible one, quit looking at me like that.”

“ _Control_ is going to know something’s up. Have you considered that yet, for when we arrive?”

“I’m thinking about it, yeah.”

Loki sniffed once, grim. “Yes. So am I.”


	17. The Black Cauldron

The rented truck had something almost like a backseat in the cab, a narrow space just comfortable enough for a small kid to stretch out a bit, so the clone of Johann Schmidt did. He kept fussing with things in his bag, staying mostly quiet otherwise. Coulson drove them north, keeping to the backroads entirely and using the night as extra cover. When they got closer, Loki was probably going to spend some energy keeping them further off Control’s monitors, fully aware that the facility knew something was probably on its way. For now, Loki was lounged lazily in the decent-sized passenger’s seat, occasionally watching the kid, who would watch him right back.

It was almost an hour before the oddly serene detente broke. The kid shifted up in his seat, pulling in his knees and looking at the tall agent in black. “Why is that your name?”

“It was given to me when I was young,” said Loki, amused. “I expect you intended a more specific question than that.”

Coulson heard the kid shift. “Why are you named for a mythological god?”

“Because I’m not a myth.” Loki grinned, delighted with the conversation. “ _God_ , however, is perhaps debatable to some. I have my own opinions, however.”

Coulson couldn’t resist poking a needle in the balloon. “Is it, though? You buy t-shirts now. I’ve witnessed this. You know, with actual money.”

“And I’ve seen my brother in an ugly denim jacket, yet everyone seems to think _he’s_ all right with his godly title.” It came out with an odd amount of defensive heat. He glanced at the kid. “It’s a long story.”

“…Right.” The kid kept fumbling with something in his hand, brow pinching in. “But these gods are actually aliens, right?”

“Yes, essentially.” Loki shifted position, getting his back against the door so he could regard the boy more comfortably. “May I ask a question, since you asked several?”

“ _Quid pro quo_?”

“Nothing so formal. We need to know more of this location before we barge in. And I know you said you know very little and saw very little. But you may know more than you think you know, by simple virtue of experience. So it would be useful if you could tell us a bit about what you went through. I understand it may not be an easy or comforting thing to do. And I understand you don’t feel you can trust us. That is very much a reasonable place to start.”

Coulson remembered the first case he’d let the newly minted ‘Agent’ Loki out on, a spiraling spy job that started with a dead teacher down south, under the observation of Melinda May. Turned out from the reports she’d filed later that Loki was actually decent with young kids, which he’d taken in with some moderate disbelief. He suddenly believed them.

The kid started off quiet, gaze sliding away. “You’re right. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Loki nodded with a slight smile. “You’re in a car with two strangers from what is supposed to be a defunct agency destroyed by your wardens. One is a rather notorious alien and the other is balding-“

“ _Hey_!”

It got an honest laugh out of the kid, which Loki waited for before continuing smoothly. “And this motley little crew is in the middle of nowhere in an attempt to do - what? Find more truth? Find vengeance for your treatment? Well, that might be what _you_ think to seek, I don’t know.”

“I don’t want revenge.” The boy said it quietly. Coulson almost slowed down the truck, recognizing the heaviness of sadness in the young voice. “I don’t. That doesn’t help.”

“Then to your young credit you start in a better position than many. Including myself. Are you trying to help the people we just evacuated?”

The boy shook his head. His question was hopeful. “They’re going to be all right now, aren’t they?”

Coulson lifted his head without turning. “They’re going to be rehoused and hidden from any remaining Hydra elements as best as we can. Some of them are probably gonna get new identities, complete new lives. Anyone that can help and wants to might wind up with a job, we’ve got a lot of openings right now. But this is far from our first rescue op. I know some of the guys that flew in, they’ve got this. It’s definitely going to be okay.”

Loki watched the boy take that in, looking more confident. “That’s good.”

“Who needs help?” Loki asked. “Are there others like you at this site? Other boys?”

He watched the small face crumble for a second, the boy dropping his head to focus hard on whatever was in his hands. “Not anymore.”

“Will you tell me about them?”

“It hurts.”

“Yes. Because you’ve carried it all by yourself, and you’re very young to have a weight like that forced on you. That’s unfair.”

Coulson heard the sniffle, tried to not look as blatantly stunned as he felt. May might have undersold those damn reports.

“They _made_ us. They never let us forget that. We’re _things_. We were supposed to become what they wanted. Then we’d be people, they told us. But only the person they wanted us to be…”

Loki studied the boy, who looked troubled at what - and who - his destiny was meant to become. “I lost an important argument once. _Once,_ you must note. On the whole, it was a critically important one, where the defeat became more valuable than any victory.” He waited for the boy to look at him again, eyes damp but curious. “No one is born evil. You cannot always be forced into it. And sometimes, even after the fall, there is still change to be fought for. Please tell me what happened. At least a little.”

The boy took a slow, ragged little inhale. Then he began to talk, hesitant.

. . .

“I remember the room where they kept the babies. There were always at least seven cots in there, but usually they were empty. Later they were always empty. The room was quiet and very cold and you couldn’t get in easily. So were the nurses. There were three of them. They never talked to me when I was taken past there, often didn’t even look. Short hallways to small rooms. I spent most of my life in them, like little rabbit warrens.

“I saw other boys like me once or twice when I was really small, but we weren’t supposed to talk to each other. They stayed in their own rooms. I saw their faces in the windows sometimes when I went through the halls to see the master or Control at the lobby, but we didn’t talk. It was always expressions. We were all afraid. I was about four, I think. Sooner or later those faces disappeared. But when I was five, they finally let me play with another boy.

“He was labeled U-139, but that wasn’t his name either. He stayed in bed a lot, so one of the guards would take me from my room down the hall to his a couple times a day. As long as I behaved. He taught me to read, really fast. He was _smart_ , so much smarter than me, and he was funny, too. He hated the guards, but he hated the nurses more, so we’d play games and get more time together by confusing them and playing them off each other. He was my friend, first one I ever had. They’d take me away when he got sleepy, but once or twice I managed to make them let me stay. So I could keep an eye on him. We didn’t trust anyone else to do it.

“We read books together and we’d play games, usually based on them. His favorite was _The Egypt Game_. Because it was all about being like other kids, far away. And about Gods. We’d play it a little, too, pretending like the Gods would tell us things that would help us. It didn’t happen, really. But he called himself Siris sometimes, picked that name out for himself and laughed about it all the time. He wouldn’t tell me why.

“We were friends for about two years. By the end, he was sleeping almost all the time, but when he woke up we’d still play and read. I’d be there whenever they let me.” The boy paused, struggling for a moment. “The master threw a big dinner one day. It was going to be a special event. And that’s when Siris finally told me what it might be about.

“Siris wasn’t healthy. He had a hole in his heart, a genetic imperfection. Something that didn’t come out right when they were tinkering with his DNA.” He didn’t stumble over the words, sounding older again. “He couldn’t breathe very well and he didn’t have a lot of energy. But he was supposed to be a great clone except for that. Maybe even better than me. The master and Control and the science staff were going to get together and the master told Siris that if the event went well, he’d get a new heart. Then he’d be perfect.

“We both got to sit at the long table, with the monitor high up in the wall, and the master and his scientists jabbered together, and Siris and I tried to eat while they all looked at me sometimes like I was a table decoration. I don’t even remember the food. I remember the long table, and the cold silver bowls, and the thing in the wall with a strange accent who talked to us sometimes like he knew us. But he didn’t.

“When they let us go back to our rooms, Siris had to be wheeled in his chair. I took him, because I’d been well-behaved for the event. That was always my reward for good behavior. And I asked him, do you think it went okay? Do you think they’ll fix you? And all he said was _they never looked at me_. He sounded… strange. I remember. It wasn’t frightened. Tired, maybe. But he would have been.

“The doctors came back a few days later. I was sitting with Siris. We finished a book that day, one we’d read before. And they wouldn’t talk, but they kept running tests. I held his hand, because the tests hurt him. They took blood so many times that his arms were always bruised, but they still put the needles in.

“They came back with a cot for the operating room a little later on. Siris wouldn’t let go of my hand. I said it’ll be okay, you’re my friend. I’ll see you after. And he said goodbye.” His voice wavered. “He never said goodbye to me before. It was always ‘see you later.’

“They took him away. And he didn’t come back. They cut him up. They cut him up so they could see where their _experiments_ had gone wrong and he knew they were going to do it all along because we never even met the other boys and nobody would help us.” The words were thick now. “They took him out of that room in pieces, and I was seven years old, and I waited for years for the day that it was going to happen to me. When I would be next.”

His hands clenched shut, the knuckles starkly white. “And then I stopped being scared of it. But I still waited for it to happen.”

The boy burst into tears, exhausted.

. . .

A long moment later, still raggedly sobbing. “His name was Siris, and he wasn’t Egyptian, but I think it was okay because he knew what was going to happen to him and it did. I would do anything to help him. He was like me and he was my friend. It _can’t_ happen again.”

“If he picked a name for himself because he liked a story, did you?” Loki asked the question with regal seriousness when the boy started to even out again, still crying but stabilizing. Coulson had stopped the truck, but wasn’t interrupting. For a long moment, it was like he was invisible to the pair. That was all right with him. The kid was letting out about five years of stuffed up crying all at once. “Did Siris help you pick one from a book _you_ liked?”

“T… Taran. A wanderer. It’s Welsh, I guess. Old. It’s a little silly, I know. He used to tease me about having a destiny that maybe they hadn’t written yet. He did it to make me feel better. We read the last book again on the day they killed him, _The High King_. I think that’s the rest of how he said goodbye.”

Loki nodded. “Then your name is Taran, if that’s what you want. It’s a good way to remember your friend, I think.”

The boy looked at him. Then Taran nodded back. When he spoke, he sounded wry. “Gods didn’t help us then.”

“Well. I’m not a very good one, but I suppose it’s past due to try something else. You can thank Coulson, however, and not any gods. He’s the one steering this mad boat onto the rocks.” Loki looked at Coulson. “Multi-level secure facility with intricate electronics, high security, minimal staff, plenty of guards. The floors and doors will be electrically locked and everything will be overseen by that digital creature.”

Coulson stared at him. “Did you seriously get all that from the hellworld this kid just talked about?”

“The boys being separated and the lack of information is its own information. The rest is logical.” Loki gave him a lopsided smile. “Also I looked up this park while I was waiting for you to finish up inside the facility. I’ll bet you a bottle of Dwarven rune-mead this place is built into one of the rock walls along the deeper valleys. It’s going to be a regular bear to break.”

“With all three of us.” Coulson was okay with admitting how dumb his ideas could be, sometimes. “I mean, there’s gotta be a way to do it. And don’t give me crap for not bringing in backup from the village rescue job, I already know I’m being a jackass. I don’t think I can take another lecture from you right now.”

“I did have a useful thought towards that end.”

“Well, sometimes you do that.”

Loki lifted a single finger in a warning as Taran managed a giggle, the boy recovering some strength from a lost weight. “It occurred to me, you know. I still have the number of the Wakandan diplomatic intake lobby on my phone. And our mutual acquaintance did seem inclined to find a way to help if you deemed it necessary. How _fortunate_ we are to be on the same continent as that grand and isolated kingdom.”

Coulson studied him, hope dawning and wrapped in red, white, and blue. “Four?”

“The right four, with the right reason to drive them.”

“How fast do you think he can get here from Wakanda?”

“With a promise to assault a base full of Nazis on order, like the bygone days of old?” Loki laughed, clear as a bell and deeply amused. “I don’t know, but at a casual guess, I’m thinking rather ruddy fast.”


	18. Squad Goals

Coulson watched the truck’s dust trail crawl across the dusky horizon towards them at top speed. Loki’s phone call to the Wakandan nation had been brisk, polite, and phrased with more than a little of a codetalker’s arcane subtlety, but he’d also rung off with a satisfied expression after giving out their current GPS coordinates. The boy - _Taran_ , Coulson thought. He had a name now, not one that’d been forced on him. Taran sat in the opened flatbed of their own rented truck, still playing with something in his hands as he leaned against their bags of gear.

Loki had them under a veil of easy camouflage, nothing straining in case of further needs, and with some sort of mystic access granted to the approaching Avenger. Coulson didn’t understand how the magic worked, and didn’t bother to ask. It would be a twenty minute explanation that would leave him more confused than when he’d started. It was enough to know that the sorcerer knew how to do certain stunning things with an efficiency that made it all that much showier. Taran accepted the reality of magic with a shrug, but he still seemed uncomfortable now and then. Coulson got the sense it wasn’t about Loki, exactly. About something underneath the situation.

While they waited, all three of them now in a companionable quiet, Coulson spent his own mental time running over possible scenarios and correlating information. Now with Steve Rogers on the way, he thought again about the story of Agent Carter’s off the record operation in Belgium. That had been part of the trailhead, part of the lore that put him and Loki here on the red stone cliffs overlooking a carefully hidden Hydra facility buried deep in a national park.

Carter had found a similar disturbing facility, a ‘parliament of failures’ dedicated to studying the whys and hows of cloning Johann Schmidt in a way destined to create a stronger, more dangerous leader meant to vouchsafe the future of the organization. A then-closed program, colder yet when she’d torched the place upon departure. Lost in that blaze was a collection of dead children formed from two distinct but intertwined ‘splices,’ or forked attempts to ‘better’ Schmidt’s natural genetics. The alpha line, seemingly an attempt at more normal genetic enhancements, and the uber, who had been something… more.

Coulson didn’t look back at Taran. The boy wasn’t a number, and definitely not a thing. All else aside, he really was just a kid. But the label Hydra’s scientists had given him - and his murdered friend and fellow clone - started with an _U_. What was that ‘uber’ that had been spliced into those old failures, and did the answer to that question now hide inside the facility they observed? He suspected, nervously, that it did. Too much time and money invested; Radcliffe’s ‘generational project’ writ large indeed. Careful intranets and another iteration of Arnim Zola to watch over it. Security out the wazoo. Things the kid had been kept away from, but given just enough exposure to to turn his life into a living nightmare. And the silence that had kept this facility safe even as the rest of the many-headed beast had been hacked apart across the globe.

Something nagged at him, some clue dangling right there in front of his face that he couldn’t grasp because he didn’t know quite what it looked like.

He heard Loki shift against the truck, the tall figure locked in private meditations of his own as his fingers continued to weave the easy illusions that kept them safe for now. Of course the facility knew they were coming. They just couldn’t know _what_ was coming. Surprise and tactics were still on their side.

An avenger, an agent, a god, and a boy that knew just enough of Hydra’s secrets to hate them.

_Hell Comes to Frogtown_ , thought Coulson as the dust trail came closer, bemused. The mutants were coming to kick a little Nazi ass.

. . .

Steve Rogers stepped out of the truck with a lightness that belied his enhanced strength and speed. He wasn’t in the familiar uniform. With the Avengers currently split by their ideals and the rule of law, he’d left that behind for now. The man before them was still dressed safely enough for a rough and tumble fight, in a blackened set of combat fatigues and a thin chestplate for extra protection similar enough to his own old gear to be his own haunt. The iconic shield had been left behind in the aftermath of that recent schism between him and Tony Stark. Instead, on his back he carried a heavy go bag like the agents, and at his waist were the usual belts and pouches found on an active duty soldier. “Gentlemen,” he said with a nod of his head to the two agents. He took a visible pause as the boy scrambled out of the truck bed in an effort to stand politely.

The clone of the Red Skull and the super soldier looked at each other in silence. The boy seemed to thrum nervously. Steve only looked back, curious. Then he looked at Coulson.

Coulson gently patted the kid’s back, keeping Steve’s gaze. “This is Taran. Yeah, it’s kind of what you think. And also kind of not.”

“Hi,” said Taran, raspy. His hands were clasped together and the knuckles were pinched white from raw tension. It suddenly struck Coulson that the boy knew perfectly who Rogers was. And that they were supposed to hate each other. He had been trained for that. The next came out in a blurt, almost frantic. “I’m sorry.”

Steve blinked, taking a fast glance at Loki next for some reason. “For what, kid?”

Taran shrunk back, against Coulson’s hand and then dipping a few inches behind Loki for cover. “For what I was supposed to be.”

Steve’s face tightened, surprised. Years of long and brutal war had nothing on his basic human decency. In Coulson’s opinion, that was often the Captain’s real superpower. “You’re a kid. That history isn’t your fault.” He cocked his head just an inch or so, looking gentle. “But what you can always do is try to be better than what that history tells you about the past.”

From within Loki’s shadow came that stressed, tight breathing again. Loki looked down behind him, expression as mild and unthreatening as the Captain’s. It seemed to help the boy fight off the new tears. No one was here to hurt him. The only ones to do that were inside - and they were all here together to hurt or stop _them_ instead. “Okay.”

Steve shut the door to his borrowed truck with a slow, wry smile. “So. With the introductions out of the way, how about a situation report so I get a little better idea of what I’m walking into with you guys.”

“Being told we’re infiltrating a fortified facility full of Nazis doing terrible Nazi experiments isn’t enough information for you?” Loki arched an eyebrow.

Steve chuckled. “Well, yeah, but you need to pace yourself so you can punch them all.”

Coulson looked at Loki’s pinched face and started to laugh hard. “I’ll get you up to date.”

“With the two of you involved, I bet it’s a hell of a story.” Rogers leaned against the truck, still smiling. “I’m all ears.”

. . .

 

Rogers passed the binoculars back to Coulson, frowning before looking up at Loki where he perched agilely atop a higher rock after returning from a fast scout along the other side of the ridge. “I’m not thinking that sewage entry on the west is viable.”

“No. The water pattern indicates high pressure in the pipes and probably a gate or other baffler within. Either one of us could probably force it in a pinch, but it’s not useful for a group assault.” Loki looked like a crow, hands hung idly between his knees as he hunkered in his casual blacks. Dark hair caught the first night’s wind, still hot and dry. “There was nothing but sharp rockface around the east. These bastards are good at fortification.” So far that left the garage entry at the roadside, and the front entrance behind an electronic gate system. It wasn’t so much just the half dozen guards patrolling the route there, but the high-impact autogun turrets watching it that had them considering options besides pretending they were selling magazines door to door. Taran piped up, hesitant. “I can probably force the garage entry if we can get to an external panel. There has to be one nearby. It’s going to operate like the gates we had at Duquesne, same protocols, probably something automated for vehicles that I can hijack.”

“Because of Control.” Loki looked down at the boy, a momentarily harmless gargoyle, all sharp angles and talons.

“Yeah. It likes consistency. I heard it say ‘ _Chaos is for the flesh_ ’ once.” Taran shuddered. “Only the way it drags out sounds is gross and creepy.”

“Yeah, I hear that, kid.” Steve snorted, arms crossed as he studied the fortress. “He wasn’t much better as a human, either.”

“Did he have a big, funny-looking head?”

“ _Oh_ , yeah.”

Taran looked as dour and annoyed as an adult. “He still does.”

Steve and Coulson shared a look, both swallowing the laugh before it hit the air. It wasn’t funny - but it also kind of was. A grim old joke. In his now-binary life, Arnim Zola was still an awful person inside and out. A toady with pretensions of more, never quite understanding how he’d trapped himself into being under the control of others while believing in his own overhyped ability. “Okay,” said Steve. “How do we get down to the garage area without tipping off a bunch of guys and some of those autogun turrets?”

“Ask me nicely and we take a leisurely stroll down. Again, it’ll be modified cover, because I expect I need to conserve my energy a touch in case of interesting times. And I am expecting _very_ interesting times once we’re inside.”

“Asking nicely is implied, Loki.” Coulson stuffed the binoculars back in his bag, squinting down the rock paths they would have to sidle down to get to the narrow road along the backside where the garage hid. “It comes with paychecks you barely use and letting you keep doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing to that corner of the facility library.”

“What’s he doing?” Steve looked at Coulson, genuinely curious.

“I don’t have a clue. It smells like a new age headshop and looks like something out of The Hobbit. I swear to God, he’s just leaving books floating around to scare new hires. Someone, I don’t know who, introduced him to antique shops. It’s hell in there. I feel like I’m gonna get pickpocketed by goblins every time I go by.”

“It is a pleasant and meditative space I’ve been constructing carefully to benefit my work, and the incense comes from a mystic vendor in Alfheim who has specialized in this craft for almost four thousand years, _thank you_.” Loki looked down at the boy, who was trying to bury his laughter in his jacket sleeve, then back up to Coulson. “Also, there are no _goblins_. I might install a _kobold_ as an assistant eventually, but your pockets are safe from such semi-independent etheric constructs.”

“I don’t even want to know.” Coulson shook his head, giving up. “Would you please just get our boring, mundane, non-magical asses down there to the garage so we can do boring, mundane things like hit people who deserve it?”

“If you put it that way, I suppose I might.” Loki straightened up in a single, smooth motion, stepping down from his perch with perfect grace. “Stay in my shadow, and keep close to the path I pick out.”

. . .

Taran had his laptop connected to the ripped-out control panel while Coulson and Rogers kept watch. Loki was ranging further out to watch for incoming trouble - his part had also involved casually tearing off the thin metal cover for the boy while the two humans dropped a couple watchmen in slick dark Hydra uniforms decorated with the now-familiar additional Nazi flair. One Nazi each, and one boosted punch each, high on the jaw and upward just under the ear. No yelling for help, just straight down into the black and casually lugged to the side out of range of any cameras like they were lumber.

Deep down, Coulson knew there was absolutely no denying the morally questionable but right-feeling thrill of having punched a Nazi dead in the face alongside Captain America himself. And that was just for openers.

Taran’s lips moved as he read along with the code he was trying to override. “It’s going to figure out I’m in pretty quick, I’ve seen how it thinks. It’s in everything inside. It’ll hit the shutdown protocols fast.”

“All you gotta do is get us in there. We’ve got enough manpower to force through a lot of whatever it can put up.” Coulson watched for Loki loping back their way. By the expression on his face, either he’d encountered nothing, or a guard or two that had amounted to essentially the same thing. He looked back at Coulson, however, and a quick furrow of his brow indicated he had a question on his mind. It would have to wait until they got inside, however.

“Okay.” Taran took a breath. “I’m going to count off to open. On five. Then we have to run in - I don’t know how fast it’s going to reassume control.”

“Ready, kid.” Steve gave him a steady nod. It seemed to help. Taran took another breath, then counted up. On five, the thickly reinforced dark steel doors pulled open. None of them waited. Rogers darted through the door just as it got wide enough, followed by Coulson. Taran yanked his laptop free as he got back up, letting now-useless cords dangle from the mutilated panel. Loki gently pushed him through and then took up the flank.

The garage itself was dark and cold, filled with the soft rushing sounds of powerful air systems. As expected, the doors never even fully opened before they slid soundlessly shut behind the quartet of invaders. A full four seconds of entry. It had been just enough.

Lights clicked on, sharp and buzzing. The garage was full of a half dozen tough-terrain vehicles and a couple of civilian rides, all neatly parked along the sides. Coulson caught Taran looking at one of the big trucks with dark-tinted windows, saw the wince that tensed the small shoulders. No enemies in here. Not yet, anyway.

“ _Gentlemen. I bid you welcome._ ” Taran slid back at the digitized and heavily accented voice emanating from half a dozen speakers high on the walls. “ _You were expected, however, U-147, your behavior disappoints._ ”

Taran shrunk back further against Loki for shelter, his small face turning grey.

“ _I suppose none of you will submit willingly to intake by our rules._ ” Control, the latest iteration of Arnim Zola, went so far as to attempt to sniff with disdain. The sound of it was a dead channel crackle of static. “ _The captain’s feelings are known. Agent Coulson’s personality has been decoded repeatedly. The boy is ours. And you, alien, will be of… interesting use._ ”

“Always this again.” Loki’s insulted mutter seemed to crawl along the floor.

“ _Always? Ah, but we, Asgardian, are well prepared for that use._ ”

Coulson felt a tingle rush across his skin at the knowing tone, uneasy.

“ _In any case. We will begin the… formal welcome. Surrender is an encouraged option._ ”

The far doors that kept the four from the rest of the facility slid open. On the other side were a number of heavily armed men in sleek black uniforms. Hydra uniforms. Nazi detailing.

“Coulson. Quick question, if you will.” Loki tilted his head politely. In front of him, Steve Rogers was eyeing the various vehicles for tactical cover. He approved, and followed along mentally.

“Real quick.”

“Where’s your place against the line now? The one I’ve asked about before, where morals and need collide.”

Phil Coulson looked at the first dozen armed men sizing them up. Each one had hard, well-honed faces. These weren’t militia, didn’t have civilian lives hidden under Dutch gables or white plaster. These were old guard, keeping the Reich’s light on for this hidden replacement for their family. They were here to capture or kill, had done so before, would do so again if they won the day. _In all honesty_ , he thought, then finished the sentence aloud. “Gettin’ _real_ fuzzy.”

“Noted,” said Loki, his voice like ice. “Shall we begin?”


	19. Stormtroopers

Steve Rogers had plans for the vehicle he was using as cover beyond just that - once the first three soldiers tried to come in to flank them, he hit the corner of a bumper opposite with most of his strength and shoved it towards them to cut off their advance and maybe even bang up a slower one before they realized what he was doing. It was easier to move the truck than he expected, realizing a second later that another pair of hands had joined the work. With both him and Loki on the same page, the results were greatly improved - one Nazi-styled Hydra soldier cut off from the advance, the other two pinned by the front bumper of the thick truck.

The bad news, they were going to need new cover for the next approaching squad. They weren’t playing dumb, they were coming in groups large enough to try to separate and overpower them individually, not to mention recapture their ‘property.’ Taran hung back, no one’s fool. In a pinch he could throw a few effective blows, but it would be better for the three adults to handle this phase until they could press further inside. He knew how the facility worked, at least on the basic level. If they could get past Control’s lockdowns.

Four men in the next group, with another three above taking superior positions to aim down. A tactical bunch. Right now the main thing going in the invading team’s favor was that Control liked the idea of taking them alive, at least for now. If they became too much of a pain in the ass, Coulson figured that would change.

He fully planned on being a _gigantic_ pain in the ass.

Two of the four-man squad broke and dove for him. One never had a chance of making it to his target. A short-bladed silver throwing knife flashed through the air one second and in the next was buried to the hilt high in the man’s back thigh, cutting the hamstring and dropping him in a tumble. Coulson braced for the next one coming in, seeing a gun loaded with what were probably tranq darts in his hand. Needed close range for good impact on those. The guy paused to take aim, giving Coulson time to dive in for a grapple. His synthetic hand clamped down on the guy’s aiming wrist, giving it one hell of a bend until he dropped the weapon. The man yelled and staggered back, taking Coulson with him. A good knee to the sternum, an uppercut, and Coulson picked up the weapon so he could break it down with a few practiced slides of its components. He let it fall, looking for the next batch of incoming and making sure the kid was still under cover behind them.

Steve finished slamming one Nazi-uniformed opponent into the hood of the truck they’d been shoving around, watching almost offhandedly as the other one did a penguin-style slide across the floor into a heap by some workbenches courtesy of Loki. That left the three above, probably readying for another set of sniper-style shots. Nets, maybe. Experimental tranqs. He didn’t know, but the goal right now was to not be hit.

Loki had his attention on the door. There were at least two more still guarding it, no doubt with more incoming shortly. He grimaced, all teeth and hot annoyance. There wasn’t going to be a lot of time to handle at least three shots from above.

He didn’t have to. The three above darted out of cover, readying their aim. He heard Coulson shout “Down!” and folded down instantly, watching Rogers do the same. Coulson dove in between the pair, for a moment looking ridiculous as he brandished his synthetic arm at the gunmen.

The energy shield deployed just as the shots came down, deflecting them off harmlessly. Steve Rogers blinked and looked up to see what had just happened, noticing the translucent SHIELD eagle guarding them and the rest of the familiar iconography that made up the defensive ward. Then he blinked again. And one more for good measure. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided it could wait.

Loki took the opening to bolt like black fire towards the far door, calculating it would be their best chance to claim ground. He wasn’t wrong - the two men holding the door’s defense tried to fend him off but found it like trying to stop a boulder from claiming gravity. He used one skull to clock another right into unconsciousness, then reached up to rip a monitoring camera off the corner for good measure. He scanned the hallway the doorway opened onto - narrow, empty, dark. Bad place to be in, a regular shooting gallery. There was a metal staircase going deeper into the facility a few meters down. He’d hear the backup coming before it got there, giving him time to mount a defense. “Move it!” he snapped over his shoulder. The hell with the three in the loft; they could get to them later as necessary.

Coulson kept the shield deployed, making sure both he and Taran were under its umbrella while Steve took flank this time.

Loki heard the footsteps clanging up the staircase seconds later. Bad timing, they weren’t going to have enough breathing room on their end to get into a side door or find out what was further down the hall. He took a sharp inhale and gathered a moderate amount of energy, deciding this was a good time for good use. A moment later he exhaled that breath with a series of arcanic words - sharp rune-sounds and a handful of guttural tones he’d picked up from blue-skinned frost shamans during recent bouts of careful diplomacy. The staircase froze over, creating treacherous passage and a gate of sharp icicles that would last at least several minutes.

Not a route they could use now, but by the amount of footsteps, that was probably preferable. He glanced back down the hall, peering sharply, checking for doors and intersections and plotting out paths in his head. “Taran. Any idea how to get a layout of this place? I’m all for combat as necessary, but mindless wandering is less my style.”

“I’d need to get to a checkpoint system. There’s probably one close enough to monitor the garage, but I’ve never wandered this floor on my own.”

Steve looked around, then up, looking for vent systems or wire bundles. There had been some inside the garage, he’d seen them not far from the loft. “East wing from here, looks like. Can we get over to it?”

“Everything kind of interconnects, I think. It’s the door system that’s going to eventually be a problem. I can force a lot of them as I go.” Taran still sounded worried.

“Okay. Coulson, ideas?”

“I was thinking the Stormtrooper Gambit.”

Rogers looked at him. “Which is what?”

“You guys run at any oncoming troops like complete lunatics, keeping them busy and goading them off of us. I’ll take Taran, try to short out the monitors as we go to keep Control blind, and get us into a system he can use.” Coulson looked at Loki with a nod. “Keep your phone on for communications.”

“Already done.” Loki jerked his head towards the hall. “Let’s have a little fun, Captain.”

. . .

Steve jogged after Loki, hearing the same approaching sounds of heavy booted footsteps. Had to be another staircase they were using. Loki stopped and shoved his shoulder against a plastered corner, using it for cover as he watched for the oncoming. Steve took the opposite side, gauging they had a few seconds to breathe before the next rising action. He looked at Loki instead.

“What?” Loki grimaced as he sensed the pointed stare, tearing his attention away from the sound trail.

“ _Really_?” Steve’s tone made it obvious what he meant. The shield program Coulson carried in his new arm, a visible homage to his heroes. “He did that.”

“Honestly, you’re surprised?” Loki snorted. “Coulson takes to certain symbols with a kind of sacred intensity. If you ask him about it, he’ll laugh it off. I’ve no doubt of that. But it matters to him.” He craned his head around the corner, gauging positions and trying to not sound too curious. “ _Are_ you surprised?”

“I’ve had a long few months where I haven’t done much but try to remember what matters, in the face of a lot of hard questions. It’s not exactly easy.” Steve shook his head.

“Symbols matter. Even when other situations are flawed. You once stood for things that remain important now, despite those questions.” Loki rolled his eyes, suddenly annoyed. “Why am I continually tasked with these conversations lately? I am an awful counselor. Leave me to politics and tactics, they’re colder and more enjoyable to me.”

Steve laughed once, soft and almost soundless. “So what’s the current tactical outline?”

“There’s about nine of these idiots incoming, probably listening to our conversation and gauging if we’re mad - which, let’s face it, debatable. If they gain tactical cover in the three doorways I’m seeing, we’ll be several extra moments uprooting them when we could be tearing on down the hall causing more trouble instead.”

“I agree. So we shouldn’t let them dig in.” Steve frowned. “Stormtrooper Gambit. That’s a Star Wars thing, right?”

“I think so.”

“Thought I remembered.” Suddenly, Steve grinned. “You realize you’re the Wookiee in this version.”

“I have better hair.” Loki looked down at himself, still in casual human-style blacks. He liked this particular cotton jacket. It was comfortable, if inexpensive. It would not please him to get blood all over it. With a moment’s concentration, he adjusted matters. Black armor now, trimmed with darkened steel and a few small flashes of gold. Not as formal as some of his regalia - this was field armor, meant for close combat and not the parade. “Should have done that earlier.”

Steve hunched, ready to pounce. “Do we do this with the wild screaming or without?”

“You can do as you like.” Loki tensed to match. Their attackers were about to move. He intended to move first. “I’m going to barrel over them with my dignity intact.”

One second later, they both charged. Loki had one gauntleted arm out in front of him, bent like a cow-catcher as he casually stormed his way through the center of the group of armed Nazis to scatter them and bang not a few of them hard across the skull. Steve was beside him at first, but then stepped back to put most of them down for the count. More than once he caught himself trying to reach for the ghost of a shield on his back, but regathered fast enough to turn it into a handful of solid haymaker blows. None of these men were anything more than mortal. A few good whacks and they were either winded out of the fight or straight out unconscious.

“There’ll be more.” Loki iced the floor behind them when Steve was done for good measure, looking ahead and picking out more overhead cameras to destroy as they pressed on. “Pacing yourself?”

“I can _still_ do this all day.”

. . .

Coulson kept watch over Taran as they moved from blind spot to blind spot, watching cameras and looking for other sensors set along the wall. Once or twice he heard shouts from nearby halls, frantic and high-pitched. Apparently the super-powered and unlikely duo were having what he would cheerfully call a good time tossing Nazis around.

“It’s going to realize we’ve split up at any second.” Taran sounded increasingly nervous. He couldn’t fault the kid, realizing there was probably emotional weight to being here he could possibly never understand. “We got lucky so far. But if we don’t get to a console soon… it’s got backup programs it can trip to shut us out. Turn the whole place into a series of airlocks that I maybe can’t brute force. I don’t know how we’d get through that.”

“We’ve got two guys that can punch really hard.” He tried to not make it sound too flippant as he looked around for clues and occasionally knocked on walls to try and guess what sort of infrastructure was behind them. His confidence in the duo’s abilities - not to mention certain of Loki’s other skills - was pretty high. “Most walls are just going to slow them down.”

Taran didn’t say anything, but he nearly lunged away from Coulson a moment later. “There! That steel door. I saw one like it on the nursery floor, there were always monitors behind it. Reinforced meant security.”

“Okay.” Coulson looked up, seeing one camera set to watch the door. It was another one on a swivel to cover most of the hall past it. Time it right, they’d have a few seconds to get through without being spotted. “Think it’s locked?”

“You can bump them if it is. I did once. What I don’t know is if there’s anyone in there right now.”

Coulson nodded, watching the camera and clocking it. “I’ll time it off, then we’ll hit it as if we’re expecting trouble. On my count.”

They hit the door low, shoving it upwards while Coulson grabbed and jimmied the handle. It _was_ locked - but just as hoped for, the technique worked like a charm. Within was one guard, already rising out of his seat and pushing for them. Coulson didn’t even think, he cocked back a fist and went in hard for the knock-out. With a stagger, the guard slumped down to the ground, then fell over.

Taran slipped past him and dove straight for the console, going to work like a master pianist. “I can’t fight Control on its own terms here. I’m not that good. This place belongs to it.”

“Just get us a layout so we can get a plan in mind. And even an electronic brain can get shut down, if we can find the right plugs to yank.” Coulson stayed by the door, keeping watch. He’d already gotten the door closed in time for the camera to swivel back. That bought them more time - at least until Taran lit up the warning system by digging around. “Focus on the most useful things first. We deal with everything else in time.”

Taran scanned monitors, scrolling through data as fast as possible. “Blueprints are behind a security protocol I’ve never seen.” He frowned. “I think I can break it, though.”

“Try your best.” Coulson looked over a moment later, after checking his phone to hear the sounds of continuing anarchy somewhere else on the floor. No wonder they weren’t getting a lot of incoming over here. “Anything?”

“…This place is bigger than I thought.” Taran sounded nervous. “I knew about four floors, figured there had to be a couple more. Main and Entry, which we’re on, second floor with all the amenities for the Bruins and their people when they’re here, two labs, and the nursery in between them. Some of that is new to me. But this is a lot more. I thought one more floor for security and engineering, but there’s at least two for each. Plus some space that isn’t labeled. And there’s two sealed off sub-floors. I think Control’s hub has to be one of them, it’s powered up enough. I don’t know what the other one is. That’s weird. Security on it is like nothing else I’ve seen.” He hunkered in, still working. “I’m trying to get its label, at least. I think I can do that before Control shuts me out.”

“It’s okay. You’re doing the best you can.”

Taran shook his head, the stress coming back. “I need to know what they were really doing here. What they meant to do with us. There’s so much they wouldn’t tell me.”

“Taran.”

He stopped, sounding frightened. “I got it. It’s labeled _Uber_.” He looked at Coulson, standing quiet by the door. “What is Uber?”

A worm crawled across Coulson’s skin, cold and hairy. Not even Peggy Carter had known the answer to that. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I think it’s something these guys have been hiding for a long time.”

“ _Longer than you think, Agent Coulson. But nothing you need to concern yourself with right now._ ” Control sounded pleased with itself, a tinny and eerie ghost pouring from the monitor speakers. “ _U-147, how smart you are. Our clever invaders. But here is where our little test ends._ ”

The door snapped shut on its own. Coulson heard the deadbolt reset, rearing his head back in surprise before immediately starting to look around for other options. If worst came to worst, he always had a good set of tiny pliers on him. “Okay,” he said, staying calm to keep the kid calm. “Guess it’s time for some of that _adaptation_ Loki likes.”


	20. Hydra Stomping Day

Loki whirled at the sound of the airlock-style sealing of a hallway behind them, Steve Rogers watching his back just in case the hall they were currently held in stopped being otherwise empty. Without missing a beat, Loki had the phone unhooked from wherever it had been hiding within his armor. “Coulson, what’s the situation?”

“ _Control let us get this far for giggles before tripping the full lockdown, decided to smirk at us a second ago like the creepy freak it is. We’ve got a blueprint of the joint on Taran’s laptop now, naturally anything we probably want to really mess up is way the hell down in the basements, and I’m really annoyed on general principle. Tell you more later._ ”

“Are you safe?”

“ _We’re technically locked into this security office, but we also got in when it was locked. Can probably get out fine, although the hinges are on the outside. Don’t worry about it. I’ll come up with something. What’s it look like out there?_ ”

“Taran wasn’t exaggerating about the door protocols. All hallways were just sectioned off with reinforced beams for additional fun. We’re in 1-4, Hallway C. Did you want to make some suggestions or shall the Captain and I start dismantling large portions of wall to make our way back to you?”

“ _Hang on, looking at the blueprints now. Ah… Two t-sections over, there’s another staircase in Hallway F. Can you get there?_ ”

“One way or another.” Loki snapped the phone back into its hiding place, looking at Steve. “What’s the odds of doing risky structural damage, you think?”

Steve eyed the walls, calculating. “Not much. That’s going to take a lot out of us, though. We’re not Banner.”

“No, but I wasn’t thinking of merely punching our way along. I can snap a lot of doors with a little magical work, and for the walls I have a few other spells in mind to work along with your strength.” Loki sniffed, thinking of a shaman of his acquaintance with an affinity for doors of both mundane and magical kind. It would have been useful to have that kind of assistance right then, but they would make do. “Slow going, but only two full sections. Once together we might come up with another option for progressing further. It might even be that the protocols differ by floor.”

Steve eyed the first steel-framed door that now divided the hallway it looked like they needed. “Hope so. I don’t want to get caught up in tiny spaces while the bad guys get to keep regrouping for more firepower.”

“Agreed.” Loki faced the door, lifting one hand. “Step back, if you would. This is going to spark a little.”

. . .

“On three, one more time. Think I heard the bottom hinge creak on that one.” Coulson studied the door up and down, looking at the dents the two of them had already bowed into the surface of it. Kid really did hit like a truck at his age. God knew what he was going to be like as an adult.

Taran panted, rubbing once at his shoulder. “Definitely did.”

“Okay.” He counted them off, bracing himself for one more hard ram. The hinge squealed and snapped. With the bottom broken, the top wasn’t going to hold them in. Coulson grabbed Taran by the shoulder before the kid overbalanced and landed on his ass in the middle of the hallway, looking at their next hurdle - the steel door bisecting the hallway they needed. From his phone hooked at his belt, he heard the sounds of screaming metal and the occasional alien mutter of language. Those two had it under control. “Now we’ve got those to deal with. You still think you can bust them down individually?”

“It’ll take me a few moments each time. Control’s going to keep adjusting the protocols to try and keep me out, so I have to redo the whole thing over and over. But it’s limited by what kind of code it has available, so there’s that, at least.” Taran managed a look of what was not exactly optimism, but sour humor. “Two years of practice back at Duquesne, whenever I could get away with it. Never really thought I was going to get back here to try it out for real.”

“I’ll watch your back each time, so just focus on getting us moving through. Just like you prepared for.” Coulson checked his ammo supply as the kid got his laptop out again, deciding he was in good form as far as that went. Unless there was a miracle Hydra machine downstairs popping out fresh Nazi recruits every few seconds, the facility’s resources weren’t going to be endless. Machine security could be handled one way or another, and for the rest, hey.

The more he thought about it, the more Coulson was pretty damn sure he was on the other side of that line right now. Control - Arnim Zola’s latest iteration - sounded like he’d given up completely on playtime. The next shots coming _his_ way were probably not going to be tranquilized. Of the four, he was going to be the most expendable.

As far as Steve and Loki, Coulson had some worries. And if it came to it, for Taran… they’d just create another poor kid to warp into their ideals. He thought of the nursery downstairs that he hadn’t seen yet, feeling a little ill.

This was going to stop. Today. One more head of the Hydra to stomp on.

Coulson racked back the slide on his firearm, then focused all his attention on anyone unfriendly that might be coming their way.

. . .

“More of them incoming. I wish just once they’d pour in from the direction we want, save us a bit of work.” Steve sounded grim. “You got this one?”

Loki examined what had to be either the last or second to last door keeping them from their rendezvous point, flexing his hands. Behind them was a mix of scorched building material and splinters, each flashpoint marking places where the structural integrity of the doors seemed weakest. Efficient enough with the two of them swapping phases of grunt work, but not as fast as he’d like. “How many?”

“Three, I think. I can handle them.”

Accepting that wordlessly, Loki got to work on undermining the strength of this particular door - steel beams and reinforced security glass and occasionally a little touch of electrified protection on the handles in case someone tried to use them for leverage. That stung, during the experimental probe he’d done to gauge its strength. All it did was make him more annoyed, fueling the energy he used for this less physical work. He harnessed it again now, holding magic between his palms like a heat-cutter. Well, for now, that was exactly what he was doing.

Behind him came the sounds of fists hitting flesh and bone, and more than once a tactical baton in Steve’s capable hands. That fracas only lasted seconds. The Captain was a model of Nazi-breaking efficiency, and no wonder. “I’m done. How about you?”

The door creaked against his efforts. One solid kick later, he was looking at the next blockade hidden behind the sealed portal. This had been the second to last, not the last. Loki looked at it, his expression bland and his words heated. “I rather hate these people.”

“Now you’re feeling it.” Steve snorted at his own black humor. “Look-“

A small head popped up on the other side of the security glass to interrupt him, then ducked down again. A second later, the door slid open without either of them having to lift a finger. Taran gave them a hesitant wave, popping the leads between his laptop and the console free. “Hey.”

Steve jutted his chin at him. “Hey, kid. Coulson.”

Phil came around the corner, looking tired. Loki studied him, smelling gunsmoke and anger in the air. He drew several observations, watching how Taran made certain to not acknowledge what lay in their own wake. The lad didn’t need more violence in his sight than necessary. Loki kept his voice neutral. This was now a war of attrition, and he’d come to no few of the same conclusions as Coulson had. He had no concerns about the state of certain of those he and Rogers had broken up. If they died from their wounds, they died. A few likely already had. “A couple encounters of your own?”

“Could say that.” Coulson jerked his head over his shoulder. “Stairwell is clear, already shot out the cameras. No incoming in that direction yet.”

“Plan?”

Coulson looked around one more time for anything that could be monitoring them, tapping once at his synthetic wrist for extra security. “Screw this place in particular. We got two goals to work towards - first, Control’s central core is in a sub-floor way down, we already figured out a good route to skip through a bunch of floors in between. I want to beeline for it, see how it’s plugged in and scramble it like breakfast. We take that out of the picture, we get easier access throughout the facility, can reroute security however we want it, and probably open access to the other goal.”

Steve finished doing a supply check of his own. “Which is?”

“Another sub floor connected far opposite that Taran found hidden in the system.” Coulson locked eyes with Loki first, then went to Steve. “We think it holds the answer to what ‘Uber’ is.”

Loki muttered a single word in an unknown language, but its tone was universally uncomplimentary. Steve’s expression seemed fit to match, when he glanced at the man. Peggy Carter’s old ghost of a hunt. “Marvelous. Well. Onward, I suppose,” said Loki, gesturing to the Captain to take lead. “I’ll take point on the next fight, since we’re both off door duty.”

“Least there’s that.” Steve checked the stairwell again for security’s sake. “All right. Let’s do this.”

. . .

Taran was able to expertly navigate them through the silent nursery floor, its doors still an annoyance but one that was lessened by ordinary necessity. The nurses had to be able to have easier motion through its longer corridors, meaning fewer blocks to their passage now. The nursery was indeed empty, however, its tenders vanished into who knew where. If they were still on site and hadn’t been absorbed into the village, they were likely sheltered in place until Control gave some other order. Control’s silence, meanwhile, was eerie enough.

Coulson found himself studying the empty rooms where boys had been held as they went by, wondering what had happened to each. How the facility’s minders had decided each one had been flawed, how they’d been ‘disposed’ of. Loki was deathly silent behind him. The eugenic murder that fueled this place seemed to offend him nearly as much - and Steve Rogers’ face was tight and hot.

Taran, however, stayed focused straight ahead. He knew the memories that slept here. He didn’t need to look at them any longer. “I’m worried about the next couple floors. Those are the security wings. If they’re regathering, or if they think they’re going to be able to try something on us, it’s going to be there.”

“I know, kid.” Still tight-faced, Steve went for a comforting tone. “If we know it’s coming, it makes it easier to defend against whatever they can throw against us.”

“The main armory was also closer to the garage, according to the blueprints,” added Coulson. “We’ve mostly cut them off from being able to supply from there. I’m sure there’s backup repositories in some of the storage lockers we saw marked, but that’s something hopeful to consider.”

The tension stayed in those small shoulders, but Taran didn’t stop moving. He led them expertly through only a handful of doors to the next stairwell, holding his breath as Steve scouted the steel and concrete box. When the fist pumped to show the all clear, Coulson kept Taran shielded and they moved silently down. As the map promised, it opened onto both security floors, allowing them to bypass one entirely. Loki crept to the door, looking for scouts or oncoming, and found only a silent, fluorescent-lit hallway with nothing waiting for them. If there was going to be a trap or a full assault they’d have to fight through to get to the next stairwell down, it was going to be on the next floor. He gestured them on by, not moving from his position until the other three were clear.

On the next landing, Loki took even more caution. While not invisible - fighting through floors had taken some portion of his energy and he wished to conserve the rest for whatever might come - he watched the dark lobby waiting for them with a tactician’s prepared silence. He went so far as to mark for the others to stay while he scouted a little further yet, creeping out of the stairwell and marking all junctions, doors, and hallways.

Nothing.

He loathed the silence. There was obviously something lying in wait, but they were smart enough to not move, not leave any trail for him to detect. There was little to do but press on, however, and he gestured a hesitant all-clear.

They made it through another two hallways of that eerie, waiting silence. There was another lobby ahead, according to Taran’s notes. Another shooting gallery of a nexus, but it was also the clearest route to the next pathway down. They kept in defensive pairs, the two powered individuals taking front to soak up any offense, and Coulson ready to deploy whatever tricks he had up his wrist to help them buy time to survive and retaliate.

Waiting for them in that brightly lit lobby was a single team. Four guards watching expectantly, and one with a modified rifle. Coulson studied them in silence. Flechette maybe, or messy shot to disperse them. Couldn’t still be tranqs, not with a weapon like that. Something crawled in his spine, making him nervous. It all seemed off.

Loki grimaced, waving Steve off to the side to keep cover. As open as the area was, moving in was going to be a close-quarters firefight that would badly endanger the other three. The Captain himself was powerful, but not bulletproof. He gestured his intent to Coulson, then stepped forward, readying himself for the fight.

The one with the modified rifle stayed still. The other four dove for him with firearms at the ready, a meaningless gamble that made him hesitate just long enough to realize this was an unusual enough tactic that _something_ else was obviously going on. He took a step back with an arm out, deflecting their bullets and shoving back the one that got into melee range. A muttered spell flung the other three back, meddling their aim. It was a distraction of some kind, some annoyance…

Coulson shouted a warning and Loki lunged back again. The one with the rifle sensed an open window of opportunity. He took his shots, going high for the pale throat twice. Bullets would have bruised. A knife might have torn a little skin. The twin needles pierced the flesh just millimeters, leaving a sting. Just enough.

Realizing _that_ had been the goal, Loki staggered back from the brace of four men he’d flung away and reached a hand up to the darts and their now-empty cargo, his hand shaking a little. Coulson stepped forward, watching the four men on the ground scrambling back up.

_“I told you, Asgardian. We were well-prepared for you.”_ Control sounded immensely pleased with itself. Following it was the sound of Loki’s shallow, raspy breathing.


	21. Sunday Night Football

Loki wrenched the darts free of his neck, rubbing hard as he continued to stagger back. Rogers stepped forward, ready to keep the other four off of him while they tried to figure out what had just been done to the alien. Coulson hadn’t moved yet, save for the few steps to keep watch on his friend. His gaze remained stuck on Loki - and at the patch of blue skin barely showing under the long fingers.

Steve froze as the raspy breathing became a hollow, rattling, utterly furious jangle of laughter that poured out of that white throat like a windstorm. “You fools,” came the hiss. Loki’s back was against the wall. The white hand dropped, pockmarked along his palm with twinned drops of bright red blood. The patch of his injured throat was still a fading inhuman blue. Steve turned to share a look with Coulson, not quite understanding what was happening. Thor had said something once. There had been the odd readings on the Helicarrier when the prince been a prisoner. But Steve didn’t know what this meant.

Obviously, nor did Control.

“You absolute idiots.” Fury was rising in the voice, Loki’s face dead white with a rage Coulson hadn’t seen in years.

_“He’ll fall momentarily. Prepare for containment.”_ Control still sounded like it believed the situation was handled. Coulson would have laughed at the absurdity of it, but he was frozen, waiting for the explosion that was about to happen.

“No.” The teeth were bared, his stare fixing on the one that had dared to shoot. The other four looked hesitant. “I will not.”

“ _Three more seconds. Hold your positions._ ”

Loki waited for those three for the sake of pure viciousness, his expression slowly becoming more feral. And when he didn’t fall, the men began to scramble back to find cover. Too late for them. Far too late. Loki moved with all the speed and strength his alien nature gave him. And where he went, blood splashed, vital and dark. Coulson reached out and grabbed at Steve’s shoulder, pulling him back. Taran had already been hidden back around the corner, kept from viewing what was happening. He knew full well there was no point in trying to stop this particular fight from ending the way it would. These were dead men, having attempted an offense that had only one form of retribution. They’d taken their shot, failed, and laid bare the old secret. There would be no calming Loki, not yet. He had to burn down on his own terms.

“ _I don’t understand._ ” Control sounded almost human in its confusion.

The rifleman ducked back into the hallway, his expression panicked while he fumbled for a reload of something more useful. Loki followed him like a ripple of lightning. A single rattling scream filtered back into the spattered lobby and was cut off abruptly.

_“Our calculations-“_

Loki stalked back into the lobby, the knife in his hands stained dark and dripping wet. He reached up and grasped the speaker with his free hand, snarling into it. “I’m not Asgardian, you useless box of data.” Then he easily snapped the speaker off the wall with a rush of sparks.

In the silence after, still he breathed. Raspy, but slowing. He didn’t look at the other three. His neck had already healed. Whatever chemical had been designed to try and halt him was already vapor in his system.

From behind Coulson, Taran’s voice filtered in, worried. “Is he okay?”

Loki licked his lips. The words were a struggle, hoarse but calmer now for the boy’s sake. “I’m fine, Taran.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Barely.” Loki flickered a glance towards Coulson. Rationality was back, but the eyes were far too hot and wounded. He turned away, looking towards the corridor they needed. “Let’s move on.”

“Wait.” Coulson took the gamble. There something that needed to be asked now, just in case. “I’m sorry. Something’s bothering me.”

“Is it the blood?” The dour snark was back, still rattling under his breath. “Watch for the puddles.”

“No it’s… why were they prepared for an Asgardian? How?”

Steve looked down at Coulson, then at Loki.

More of that ancient rage drained from the pale face as he turned to look over his shoulder, leaving the tactician behind. “That, Coulson, is a very damned good question.”

“Let’s go ask Control about it, then.” Steve gestured towards Taran. “Keep your eyes on Coulson, kid.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Unbothered, Taran kept an eye on Loki instead. “The rest of the guards are going to be preparing a last stand, though. To keep us from the core.”

Ice filled the room on Loki’s whisper. “Then they die, if they so choose.”

To that, Steve only nodded.

. . .

There were two rushed barricades set up between them and the stairwell to the engineering floors that lay between them and the sub floors, each pile of broken furniture and steel tables barely manned with a sacrificial crew. The first fell to a hard rush by Steve Rogers, backed by the screaming winds summoned by Loki and a handful of shots from Coulson. Two men died trying to fend them off, the other wounded enough to stop fighting and focus on his own survival.

At the next barricade, only several meters down the hall and around the final bend, the crew broke and ran down to rejoin what had to be the bulk of the resistance left. What was left behind was an automated turret system. Coulson blocked its output for several wincing seconds with his deployed shield while Taran managed to hack into its netcode and shut it down. When that was done, Steve tore it apart with old school efficiency, finding it close to an upgraded version of similar turrets he’d seen in the war. It seemed to be a theme here, old Nazi tech giving way to slightly newer iterations. Believing in the efficiency of themselves. And ironically not understanding the value of stronger evolution.

Loki kicked scraps out of his way with a steel-reinforced boot as they swept through the ruins of that last blockade. “Any guesses on how desperate they will be, the next floor down?”

“Very.” Steve said it quietly. “That’s going to make it exceptionally dangerous.”

“I don’t think I care overmuch.”

Coulson led the kid along with an arm across his shoulder, friendly but not overly paternal. He wasn’t trying to insult the kid. “Taran, hang back best you can. Keep your safety a priority.”

“What about you?”

“I’m used to ducking when these guys get violent. I’m running defense. Captain?”

“Yeah.”

“Engineering looked like had some serious side rooms for experimental tech set up. I doubt we’re gonna run into anything too special, they haven’t had time to really hunker up, but we’re probably going to see some more turrets. Laser systems, maybe. Drones to keep an eye on us.”

“Noted.” Steve gave Loki a curt nod. They’d push, but they’d push carefully enough to not soak up more damage than necessary. It was all about the output. “Let’s go down.”

. . .

Coulson had been right. He shot down two drones patrolling the stairwell, knowing that was as good as showing up on their cameras for the defense monitoring them. Still, it kept their movements a little more shrouded. Any tactical value, when they knew they were going to be badly outnumbered. The question was going to be, were they going to go all-in, or were they going to try to break them up in waves?

Steve carefully scouted the corner separating the squad from where they’d heard the faintest rustle to alert them that something lay ahead. Barely showing skin, he peeked and popped back.

Bullets came after him in a hail. “Yeah, I’d say they got more turrets,” Steve said, his expression easy and unsurprised.

“You get a glimpse how many?”

“Well, three stationary on ceiling mounts and, ah, they got a robot version type thing.”

Coulson slumped against the wall. “I was not betting on an ED-209.”

“A wha?” Taran furrowed his brow.

“It’s from a movie. Ask me when you’re like 18, because the good one’s not a very family friendly flick.” Coulson checked his gun, mostly out of habit. A sidearm wasn’t going to stop an armored, mobile turret. “Was it moving?”

“It’s on treads. Looked slow, but it was moving. Bet you five bucks Control’s running it. Yeah, it’s what we heard down the hall.”

Loki looked down at his hands, flexing them. “Rogers, can you draw its fire for a scant second or two without dying?”

“What exactly did you have in mind before I answer that?”

“Roll to the opposite corner, focus on the not dying bit, give me a cone of access to duck in while invisible. The stationary turrets are a problem, but I can almost certainly stop the mobile.”

“I’ll try to get into the signal while you’re disrupting the bot. Shouldn’t be difficult.” Taran fumbled the laptop open, distracted. “They all seem to be running on the same protocols when they’re automated like that. It’s so dumb, Control has to micromanage all this stuff just to feel powerful. But yeah, the robot is probably hardened.”

“Well, Zola wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was about some things back in the day. Arrogance has a way of being a brain drain.” Steve looked at the hallway gap, calculating. “Let me know when you want me to dive.”

Loki was already whispering to himself, fingers working in complicated patterns. “When I snap my fingers,” he said, barely pausing in his work to do it.

Steve hunkered low, waiting for it. When the sound came, he dove, feeling air cut to shreds behind him as the mobile turret targeted him. He didn’t hear Loki, knew he wouldn’t see him. Every part of him was focused on the split second needed to get back into cover.

By the time he did, gunfire still filled the hall, along with squealing metal and the sound of something tearing apart.

Taran nearly pounced out of his hiding place, excited. “Get back, I just sent a-“

Coulson yanked him back with a startled shout, catching out of the corner of his eye as Loki did as asked anyway. The three turrets high on the walls focused in on the mobile, unloading the rest of their ammo supply into its already-exposed guts.

A few seconds later, the hall was silent and filled with grey smoke. Taran sounded sheepish. “I told you it was dumb. I redid the protocols to help kill the robot. I just didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“It was a good thought, but next time warn a person before you do it.” Loki patted at his gauntlets, looking at new scratches in the blackened finish from where he’d manually torn out the back of the machine to get at the vitals. Between that and the traitorous gunfire, the thing was dead and gone.

“ _Unfortunate_ ,” came the whisper from a speaker down the hall. “ _Most unfortunate._ ” Then it clicked out again, leaving them with the stench of machinery and oil.

. . .

The final line of defense numbered about twenty well-armed guards, lined up in professional positions between them and a steel door with a complicated-looking control panel that to the stairwell down into Control’s core. Coulson eyed them on a quick peek himself, finding himself reminded more than a little of Arizona’s absolute rout he’d unleashed. That was all they had left to stop them - these armed men. They wouldn’t be as inclined to break and run, and their firepower was stronger. But beyond that, little difference.

He glanced at Loki, seeing the same thing in the grey-green eyes. They were going to get rolled, this last line. Nothing more to it. A look at Steve next to say Loki would take shield-point.

Nothing fancy. Nothing special. _Really_ , thought Coulson, _it’s barely_ _Sunday Night Football_.

Loki charged in, whispers keeping the bulk of the gunfire off of him and ensuring the Captain in his wake would be safe enough. He barreled into the center of the group, dividing and scattering them immediately and lessening the use of their guns. Well, unless they wanted to circle up and fire inward at each other just for a chance to plink the armored murder machine. Steve broke left, his arm coming out and hooking one uniformed Nazi around the neck, piledriving him downward and bodychecking a second as he went. A third got grappled hard and flung into one of Loki’s broken discards, the black figure tearing people’s defenses apart as he moved.

Twenty, down to fourteen already.

Screams peppered the hallway, but they fought back anyway. One in a ranking uniform weaseled into point blank range on Loki, his firearm coming up into the pale face from the side. Barely breaking his attention from the man whose ribcage he’d just smashed, he reached up and tore the gun free, tossing it away. Similar to Steve’s initial feint, this would-be enemy hero got grappled around the neck as well, but a few seconds later, he had gone a shade of blue that would be incompatible with life if it lasted too long. He was dropped and ignored. Good enough. They could live or die by their own choices and incompetence.

Eight left. Coulson was now safe to take opportunistic shots. Two got winged when they tried to duo the Captain, one got a clean head shot when Coulson blandly recognized harder ordinance - a grenade, it looked like - coming out of a pocket for a last ditch shot at blind fanaticism.

Three, and them already wounded. Two ran after all, dripping blood. The last was trapped. He passed clean out, air guttering in his throat.

“That was almost anticlimactic.” Loki looked down at the prone figure, his voice grating.

“Call it a compliment on our skills.” Steve holstered his weapons, looking around for salvage and also for a way through the door. “Taran, think you can get this?”

The boy scuttled neatly around Coulson, who kept an eye on the prone figures to make sure nobody was coming back up for some sort of final, desperate stunt. “Let me take a look. It’s going to be under Control’s own command and not anyone else who lived here, so it’s not going to be exactly like the others.” He fumbled with the panel for a while, prying at plastic covers to try and see how it was wired. “I don’t know. This is… it’s not how I expected.”

Soft digitized laughter came from somewhere nearby. Coulson looked around for a speaker and didn’t see one, knew there had to be one regardless.

“Jerk.” Taran said the insult softly. “Can one of you help pull the panel off more? I want a better look.”

Steve was closer. Fingers curled in around the covers the boy already loosened, tugging with a little strength and then a lot more. A moment later, the full guts of the panel were exposed; chips and tangled wires and all of it leading into some sort of advanced processor none of them could identify on a glance.

“That’s what it is. It’s a piece of Control itself. Like a finger.” Taran studied it, worried. “I don’t know how-“

Steve’s hand wormed in again, gripping the processor and unceremoniously tearing it out.

“Sometimes you simply break the finger,” observed Loki, bemused at the way the door clunked loose. It would pull open relatively easily now. “I wager that hurt.”

“I _hope_ it hurt,” said Taran, hot. His head hung low, tired under the anger. “I hate it.”

Coulson nudged the boy with his hand. “Come on. Let’s get to work on ending this. Let’s go down.”


	22. Uber

_“In the end, of course, you must understand you cannot halt the progress that has been started here. We who have taken the gifts left behind and prepared the stage for a new and better world will continue our work. We will forge supremacy for the sake of mankind. It does not matter that you now approach my core. It does not matter what you do next. What matters is the actions that will sustain our duty onwards.”_

“Oh my God, it’s gonna monologue at us the whole way down.” Coulson sagged with dramatic annoyance against the stairwell at the midway point, ignoring Control’s continuing drone. “This really is the final boss.”

_“You can whine if you like. My truth cannot be ignored-“_

“Shove your truth right up your binary.” Steve kept moving down, currently in the lead. “And don’t anyone correct me, please. I know that’s not a thing. It sounded right when I thought of it.”

Coulson and Taran shared a look, the boy befuddled and Coulson just shrugging it off. Steve Rogers was never going to be the tech guy. He didn’t need to be.

“ _Uncouth as ever, despite being America’s boy scout._ ”

“And now Arnim Zola is back from the dead to bring back the joke about me and harsh language.” Steve took a harder step down than necessary, his army-style boot thudding a dull, loud note through the narrow and chilly stairwell. “Great.”

“What joke?” Loki sounded genuinely curious, his voice filtering down from the back of the group. Whatever Control was going on about now was lost.

“Forget it. Please. Honest request.” Steve thudded down another step. “On the bright side, I can see the door from here.”

“It’s cold. There must be a lot of chillers working to keep it alive.” Taran shivered. “What did it run on last time you saw it?”

“Tape computers. Magnetic tape servers. Almost as old as me.”

“1951 for commercial magnetic. Vacuum and punched tape computers were closer to your age.” Coulson, ever the historian, had to burp that out for factuality’s sake. “I’m just saying.”

“Still really old.” Taran shrugged. “This has to be a supercomputer array it’s running off of now, something more efficient to mimic a human brain. Servers like neurons. Probably not running at petaFLOPS speed, though. I think that’s still the fastest.” He looked up at Coulson and grinned. “I bet that bothers it.”

“ _If this iteration of my will fails, my next can yet ascend to greater intelligence, greater possibilities for the future of Hydra and our ideals-_ “

“It literally just Obi-Wanned us. Holy crap, I’ve never wanted to watch a computer crash more, and that includes the industrial-sized laptop SHIELD gave me in 1987. That thing sucked. Even for the time, it sucked.” Coulson shook his head. “Never take Air Force castoffs.”

Loki’s shadow loomed across the staircase beneath him. “I’m starting to miss road food and hitting people. I don’t know what’s worse. The monologuing, or your complaints.”

“Funnel it towards hating this place and getting this wrapped up.”

In the background of their kvetching, Control continued to drone on about its will to survive.

. . .

The door to core Control was unlocked. Perhaps it decided there was no point, that all it would buy would be a delay of moments. For a computer, that might be eternity. But perhaps there was enough of a human ghost in Control to not bother. Instead, it all but welcomed them. “ _Behold me, then. Behold, one more time._ ”

A central console, shiny and black, like an altar. Around it ringed the servers that fed the digitized mind and made countless bits of data into a coherent, thinking whole. Yet for all its shiny newness, Steve couldn’t shake the feeling it still looked much like the setup he’d witnessed with Natasha, several years ago. Antiqued. Out of date. Out of time. He paced around the room, studying the setup.

Atop the shrine of data was, as usual, a monitor from which the digital thing could look back at them. That was familiar too. Control already waited for them, the lines of a cel-shaded face sharp blue now and cleaner. The rounded face still wore its spectacles, a visual totem of its past life. A mimicry of identity.

“Amazing what a good LCD monitor can do for your looks,” muttered Coulson, who’d read the files of what happened to Steve and Natasha in that destroyed bunker.

“ _I exist. What of your nature?_ ”

Coulson raised his voice. “Hell no, we’re not doing the Sphinx crap. We’re shutting this place down.”

“ _Without yet understanding all the secrets we’ve curated here? Oh, but mankind thrives on knowledge, even when it is itself a sin. And what forbidden fruit was left to us, Agent Coulson. Gifts on the vine, ripe and ready. You have questions that do not yet have answers. I can give them to you._ ”

“In exchange for what? The truth, as you see it?” He sounded fully unconvinced. Control wasn’t going to tell them anything useful about Uber or what was going on here, not easily. Not without games. This old ghost. Not a few seconds ago it was going on about progress. Now it was basically begging for its life. Well, that was Arnim, by all historical accounts. Get his back to a wall, he turned into a toad.

“ _Do we not all deserve second chances, Coulson? Bound here by Hydra, I am not at my fullest potential. As I say. What I could do for your people. All I strive for is perfection, but I need not choose a side. What I have been for the regime, I could be-_ “

Steve crunched a fist through a tall server, causing a squeal of sparks. “I can’t find the power strip, so we’re going to do this instead.” He moved on to the next server as Control suddenly took a begging note. It was going unheard. “Anyone going to stop me?”

“ _Why_?” Again, it sounded almost wholly human.

Coulson answered it softly as Steve continued to hammer his way through the setup. “Because you’re wrong. Sometimes, no, you _don’t_ deserve a second chance. What you did in life. What you’ve done for Hydra before. What you’ve done now. No. There’s no chance for something like you. You’ve never earned it, and I don’t think you ever could.”

Loki stayed silent, watching the destruction happen. Taran stayed near him, huddling his laptop close to his chest and watching Steve Rogers shut Control down in the easiest and most brutal of ways with something like bleak awe.

“ _But what I could tell you! You don’t understand what we made here! What we tried to do!”_

“We’ll figure it out for ourselves.” Control’s monitor blinked out as Coulson watched, feeling no sympathy nor regret. A few moments later, Steve had done what he could. “Right. Taran, is there anything left you can work with? Just open all the doors and shut down any remaining security.”

“I’ll try.” He studied the main console. Of it all, Steve had left it alone. There would be some basic functions left, not tied to the daily power drain of keeping the false brain alive. “Might take me a little bit.”

“It’s okay. I think we all need a few minutes to breathe. Then there’s just one more door.”

Taran nodded, swallowing audibly. “Uber.”

. . .

The facility was silent, the halls echoing only their footfalls as the four came back up one flight and re-crossed the bottom engineering floor to find the access panel to the other sub-basement. The door itself was slightly hidden, a smooth place in the wall meant for most of the facility’s residents to ignore, knowing what it held was not meant for them. It pushed open with a touch of Taran’s hand, recognizing him as now having sole master access to the entire site.

Beyond it, one more staircase. This one was antiseptic, smelling of crisp medicine and even crisper linens. They made their way to one more door, a thick barricade of pure steel that looked like it had been designed to survive an all-out war. Its locks would have been complicated an hour ago, but again, it fell open before Taran’s touch.

Below them was an amphitheater ringed by a handful of medical machines along the wall, channeling their tubes like a spider’s web towards the white bed in the center, still automatically giving and taking from their host even as the facility’s original master lay destroyed in a heap of rubble. Steve made a soft noise, shocked.

On the bed lay an old man, human-looking enough. The beard that covered his thick and wrinkled face was dead white, shot through with only a few scraps of remaining silver. Hair just as colorless ran over his broad but frail-looking shoulders. Eyes as hot as a forge even through their rheumy cloud watched the four approach. He did not rise to greet them. He did nothing but watch, all he _could_ do. He had no legs, no telltale shape lay under a blanket. He had but one arm left to him and that one full of the needles that kept him connected to the machines. The other was cut off just below the shoulder, leaving only inches of a stump.

Across his chest, he still wore the battered and ancient Asgardian breastplate he had been found in, but wrapped around the rest of him were clean linens and soft bandages. Those hot eyes studied them in turn, but fell last to Loki, where they stayed and studied his armor. His words were bony and old, but still painfully formal. Old rhythms, alien poetry, somehow familiar. “Lord of home, where still my soul dreams of war. Am I found, to be returned, this broken shell? I am long shamed by my capture, my loss. Tell me young lord, does great Odin yet reign? He was the young lion in winter’s war.”

“Enough,” said Loki, soft. “No more formal speech, old warrior. Yes, Odin yet reigns over Asgard.”

The face fell a little, weary but comforted. “More than a thousand years. More than that. I’ve forgotten so much. I fell in battle, as we must, or so I thought. Them jotun beasts streamed across this world, bringing that unnatural frost with them. The small things that now hold me here, their kind fled before them, but we did not. I woke a captive, shamed, broken, a testament to my own failure. The jotun did far worse than kill me, they left me to suffer and be missed. Then the little ones kept me alive despite my attempts to remedy my mistakes. My entreaties fell to emptiness. They took my legs, my arm, my pride, claiming they saved me from rot and disease. They do not honor our stars or our gods, these little things. They passed me from place to place, sometimes a curiosity, sometimes a thing to be used and studied. They grew darker natures. They would take small pieces from my flesh for their reasons, but not much. I had too little left to give, to my shame. To even greater shame, they would not let me die.”

The old man looked away. “Perhaps a century ago they began to use me in earnest. I do not know when for certain. They took me to a new place, underground, built from metal and stone. They were angry, always, the little things. What they tried to make from me did not work. They took ruined things away to keep as strange prizes. And then, they brought me here. I think they may have found some progress. Something broken and slight, no doubt. I see a boy with you. Perhaps you are what they made, child. A small thing still. But hardier, mayhap. Gruesome work. Heresy. You should not be, if this is so.”

“What’s your name, old one?” Loki was leaned against the doorway as Taran shrunk back, frightened. Coulson looked at his friend as he comforted the boy, seeing the mask, knowing him well enough by now to see that under the expression he gave, he was deeply stricken. The clues were there for him. The smallest tremble in Loki’s voice. Knuckles on the railing paler than normal. They had all suspected after Control’s assumptive attack, but knowing was something else. “Who was your father?”

“I am Greyval, son of Grim. I fought in nine great wars, three of them against those beasts of ice, them scourge of that realm. I have slain countless men and monsters for young Odin and for mighty old Bor, and all for our kingdom’s honor. I fell on plains gone to unnatural ice, and my warrior brothers went on without me, never knowing.” Greyval lifted that remaining arm in the closest thing he could do to a warrior’s salute. “I lay here in my weakness and shame. Tell me of home, young lord. I beg thee. I say again that I see your armor and hold hope for what it means. Does Odin reign well? Did his lady Queen bear us a prince for future’s light?”

“There has been a prince, a man now of great honor.” Color was seeping from Loki’s voice. Coulson noticed immediately the singular he used, swallowing hard. “Odin serves the realm as best he may, though as with all kingdoms, there are always troubles.”

“So it must be. I must not be seen by him in my shame. I must not.” Greyval shook his arm. “I wish to leave here, but I cannot do it by my legs alone. They were taken from me by monsters, so I may crawl like a babe and nothing more. I am weak and fallen. This is not the song I wished to sing. There is no glory here for me.”

“Monsters.”

Greyval turned pleading again. “Tell me, young lord. Did Jotunheim fall for good and for all? Are our long wars won? If I have that much to know, I may not earn Valhalla for I may fight no more, but I will have peace before Hel’s bleak void that waits for the weak.”

Loki stirred. “Get out,” he said. There was no hostility in it. The words were breathed out like feathers. “You three, get out. Go back up the stairs.”

“Loki?”

“No, Taran. You’ve seen an answer. Like them all, it will leave you with more questions. Coulson, take him up. Go. Shut the door behind you.” The next, heavier, falling stones into a frozen lake. “ _Please_.”

They went, tugged along by Coulson, who thought he already knew on some level what was going to happen.

. . .

Loki came the rest of the way down the stairs, never breaking eye contact with Greyval as the door above shut softly. They were alone. “Jotunheim’s king was slain, but only years ago.”

Greyval breathed out a sigh with his eyes closed a moment, content. “Him, the king of all such beasts. I saw him ride that massive wolf of his twice with my own eyes, but no arrow found its mark. I hope his warriors fell and rotted after him. I hope their spires shook and took more down with them.” He looked up as Loki finished his approach. He loomed by the fallen warrior’s bedside, deep black against that sterile white. “I see your armor, fine and dark. Lord’s armor. Am I right? Do you serve the royal house, or by miracle does their blood itself come to find me here in the dark?”

Loki pulled a knife from a sheath hidden by his hip, a golden blade the length of his hand. An heirloom weapon easily as old as this broken greybeard and no doubt older yet. He knew how sharp it was, knew it was designed to cut the flesh of all he might face in the Nine Realms, whether Asgardian or Jotun or Helheim’s own feral unlife. Without a word, he set it on the bed by Greyval’s trembling, lone hand like an offering.

Greyval glanced at it with a furrowed brow, then back up into his face. “Why the silence, young lord? What finds me, in my misery and shame? Who are you?”

Loki remained close, within arm’s reach while he prepared his next action. It took concentration to do it willingly, a focus of strength powerful enough to overcome all the fears and biases within him, knowing full well how it would all be reflected in the old man’s eyes.

Greyval saw only stillness in his rescuer’s face - and then a moment later, as Loki’s alizarin eyes opened to watch him, Greyval saw the rush of blue skin overtake the pale mask, and the geometric markings of a frost giant that were Loki’s true face and true birthright crowned that high brow.

With a sudden roar of utter, mindless fury and acid loathing, Greyval scooped up the knife with that one good hand and lunged for the hateful thing that faced him, there in the depths of his near-eternal prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one final update by the end of the week, containing the next chapter and the epilogue.


	23. The Honor Guard

Coulson listened for the sound of footsteps to come back up, first only hearing one old man’s battle-shout even through the sealed door. Steve tensed at the sound, ready to go down and help whatever was going on, but Coulson gently put his hand on the Captain’s arm to stop him.

Steve looked down at him, worried enough to put lines across his brow. “Wait,” said Coulson. “I think it’s going to be okay.”

There was silence for a long time after that shout. Ten minutes, then almost twenty. Long enough that Coulson began to doubt himself, and then those heavy steps finally began to work their way up the staircase. Coulson lifted his head and watched Loki pull the door open to stand framed there, hands cut to bleeding in several places and the long fingers shaking, his face grey and mournful. He wasn’t looking at them. “Loki?”

“Greyval Grimson will be taken today to Asgard with all his due ceremony.” Loki still didn’t look at them, his gaze flickering instead along the patterns of the floor. His voice stayed colorless and empty. “He has died a warrior. I must call to Heimdall for the arrangements. There will be an honor guard arriving shortly.”

“I… don’t understand.” Steve took a careful step forward, not trying to be combative. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what any of that means.“

Loki finally looked at them, a quick and brittle glance, old hurt crossing his face like the trail of a bullet. “You don’t need to.” Loki looked away again, gently waving off Taran as the boy took a step towards him next. Then Loki excused himself with a curt bow and disappeared down the hall.

“Coulson?” Steve waited until Loki was long gone to look at him for answers instead, recognizing the need for tact.

Coulson kept a gentle hand on Taran’s shoulder. “The old guy was supposed to die in glorious combat against his enemies a thousand years ago, it’s sort of what elder Asgardians do instead of watch Wheel of Fortune and play bingo. Instead, all he did was get cut up and used as a guinea pig. By humans. So today, he got one more chance to face that old enemy. And he finally died of his injuries, the right way. As they think of it.” Coulson looked at the now-empty doorway that led to the amphitheater. “It’s not something that makes sense to us. I don’t know that I like it much. But as far as their kind goes, I think Loki tried to do the right thing by the guy, and it hurt him to do it. Okay?”

“Is that what he actually is? A frost giant.”

“Yeah. Asgardians have hated the crap out of them for millennia. There’s some other stuff going on now. It’s complicated.”

Steve considered that, looking sober and thoughtful. “Explains some things.”

. . .

Taran led them out of the facility and back into the morning light. They were looking at where the trucks were hidden on the far ridge when Coulson heard the telltale rush of the rainbow bridge not far away from them. They turned to watch four tall, golden-armored women bow with slow reverence to the black figure waiting to lead them inside. A little while later, the small group emerged again. Now the four women carried between them a too-small figure clad in a shroud of sheer golden silks. It was impossible to know what the valkyries thought of their charge. The death masks they wore were impenetrable and hauntingly beautiful, with clear gems where their eyes would be.

Loki did not go with them when the bridge rushed its riot of bright color once more. He stood alone in the silence for a while, looking at the rising sun with all his thoughts kept to himself. Then he returned to the waiting group of three, his hands now in the pockets of a mundane cotton hoodie and his expression still clouded and its thoughts meant only for himself.

Taran stared up at him, worried enough to not pester. With a soft snort, Loki took out one hand and patted the boy on the head, ruffling the dark hair. “So,” he said, glancing at Coulson before turning back to the boy. “I suppose the last real question here is what’s to be done with you? Hidden underground facilities aren’t any place for a youth in the long term, so I suppose that tears one answer.”

Taran gave an awkward shrug. “I don’t know,” he said in every young boy’s tone of _I know, but it’s silly_.

“You must have had some idea what you wanted to do when you escaped these people.” Steve smiled down at him. “Anything.”

“I just… I want to pretend to be normal. I want to go see a movie. I’ve never done that. I want to be able to just walk to a new park, or eat food in public.” Taran looked sheepish. “I just want to go anywhere but here. And I like you, but yeah. I just… I want air. Real air, and be on my own feet.” The young voice trailed off. “Does that make any sense?”

“You want to be a kid.” Coulson leaned back on his heels for a moment. “Before you get stuck being an adult again.”

“Yeah. But I don’t know what that means, not really. I’ve never been anywhere without a fence to keep me in or a collar on me.”

“Eh, you had a handle on a few of the basic ideas. Play with gadgets. Go see a Star Wars flick now that they’re making new ones.”

“What’s Star Wars?” Taran looked up at Coulson, curious. “I think you mentioned it before.”

“Oh, _man_. Are _you_ in for a brave new world and a galaxy far, far away.” Coulson sounded excited, there for a kid’s first introduction to classic pop culture mythology. Loki stared over his head, purposefully blank. “It sounds confusing, but trust me, start with the fourth movie - start of the second trilogy - first before you go see any of the new ones. _A New Hope_. It’ll make sense in context.”

“Okay.” Taran sounded a little doubtful at that, but willing to take his enthusiasm at face value.

“But first we gotta find you a place to go.” Coulson looked down at him, as comfortingly as he knew how. “I have a couple ideas, but I need to look into them a bit. Will you trust us for a few days so I know I can get you into a good place?”

“No orphanages or anything like that? I read about them in books. They never _sounded_ like good places.”

Coulson laughed. “Lots of them in the real world do mean well, and we’ve got a friend who turned out pretty okay despite the hand she got dealt. And she had a rare run of the worst of it. But no, Taran. I’m going to try to skirt all that and get you into a real home as quick as I can. It’ll be a little weird for those couple days, though.”

Loki glanced at him, knowing what he meant. The first hurdle was going to be trying to delay the new director of SHIELD canning them both for their antics long enough for Coulson to do his part, if not take that final outcome off the table entirely. He looked to Steve Rogers next. “And you? You’ve come for your fun and punched not a few Nazis for more than nostalgia’s sake, despite your exile. Which, in seriousness, I must thank you for your arrival. The odds were far more unpleasant prior to that.”

“Nazis are pretty much my instant emergency line.” Steve shook his head, rueful. “I hate, and I don’t use that word lightly, I _hate_ that their mindset is even still a thing. That they still exist, whether as fragments of Hydra or kept alive among all these smaller hate groups. Everything we fought and died for, and they still try to crawl back into the light and pretend they had the right of things. Sometimes I feel like my war never ended, woke up while it was still going on. Maybe that’s just what war is. Or at least that one.”

“Ideas are hard to kill. Even the wrong ones.” Loki shrugged it off. “We’ve been reminded of that on the journey here. And no, not all fights end simply. The Hydra’s neck has been strangled, but the brain survives despite.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a source of human frustration.” Rogers looked at him, sober and careful. “Maybe not just human, either.”

“No. Likely not.” The tone was neutral, but Loki inclined his head just slight enough to acknowledge and agree to what was being said.

“An Asgardian held prisoner for this long.” Steve shook his head. “It wasn’t right. Nothing they did to him or with him was right. I’m glad he’s going home.”

“What yet lives of his family will be pleased to see him off to the stars. I have been informed a brother survived that same war that wounded him, and his grown children now will oversee the rites at the palace tonight.”

“You going to go?” Steve watched Coulson begin to lead Taran back to the trucks, arching an eyebrow as the boy paused, trying to tell Coulson something.

“No. I am not.” Momentary discomfort crossed Loki’s face, softened somewhat by the knowledge Steve was not deliberately trying to dig at old wounds. “The All-Father will be present to serve for Asgard’s honor, and perhaps Thor as well. Under the circumstances, I feel I have very little place there. It would be better for me to remain here, and handle the aftermath of this more… simply.”

“I can understand that.” Steve paused, looking up at the sky as a flock of birds went by. “They invite me to all the veterans events, you know - well, they did before I broke off and had to hide. Pearl Harbor, D-Day… I go to some of them when I can, but it never feels quite right somehow. Not wrong, either. No hostility, just a… missed sense of place. I never quite understand how they look at me. Like they’re not seeing me, exactly, but something else.”

“I told you. Symbols matter. Sometimes the price is forgetting what lays under the symbol, and that can be a weight all its own.” Loki squinted against the sun, realizing what he was hearing was Taran breaking off from Coulson to run back towards them. “It’s harder for you to be only human. But you do that well enough, I suppose.”

Taran looked up at Steve Rogers, something clutched in his hand. “Can I give you something?”

Steve smiled down at him. “Sure thing, Taran.”

“Another boy gave it to me when we left Duquesne. I didn’t know him that well, but he liked me all right. His mom was one of the genetic scientists there, one of the ones that got rescued, so they both knew me a bit.” Taran’s fingers worked around the small item, just as they had in the truck. “They… they knew maybe I didn’t have to be a bad person. And he gave me this to remind me of that. I thought… I wanted to give it back to you, because that’s important to me. Because you showed up to help, too, and I didn’t expect that. I’m not going to be a bad person, not ever. Because they believed things can always be better. Because of people like you. I believe that, too.”

Steve reached out his hand to take the tiny plastic item - a toy shield with its red, white, and blue paint scarred and flaking, bemused. “Thank you. Kind of mislaid my own for a while.”

“You’ll get it back.” Taran sounded confident. Then he hesitated, tensing once before pushing himself forward to hug Steve. The words were muffled against Steve’s shirt. “I’m glad Johann Schmidt’s dead. I hate what he did to people. I hate what _they_ did to people.”

“Kid, me too.” Steve laughed gently and patted the kid’s back, unable to help how tired his words sounded. “You’re nothing like him. Don’t ever worry about that.”

“Thank you.” Taran turned, then stopped, looking at Loki. Looking almost defensive, Loki also accepted a short hug. “You, too. You did what you could to help.”

“I was asked to.”

Taran let him go and stepped back. “Maybe you are a God.”

Loki snorted, gently derisive. “Go get in the truck. And don’t hug me again.”

Taran laughed at him and jogged his way back to Coulson.

Steve grinned at Loki, who eyed him back. “Can I get a hug?”

“I will, despite all my princely upbringing, vomit on you if you try.” Loki seemed to somehow physically prickle at the joking suggestion.

“Settle for a handshake?”

“There was that time we threw each other across half of Germany, whose parallels are no longer quite so lost on me.”

“The bit with Thanos was after that.”

Loki looked away. Then he looked back, gingerly offering a hand. “Suppose there was a bout of good hunting after all.”

Steve took it. “Suppose there was.” He let Loki’s hand go and lifted his chin. “Good luck with the new Director. I get the feeling there’s jobs that stay off the books at SHIELD, and then there’s this one.”

“Oh, I’ve few worries about him. But the sentiment is appreciated.” Loki stuck his hands back in his jacket’s pockets, looking after Coulson. “I’m surprised Coulson isn’t still over here angling for a hug from you himself.”

Steve laughed. “We punched Nazis together. I think that’ll hold him for a while. But he’s good people. I’ll always respect that.”

“Yes.” Loki started moving towards the trucks, the morning sun at his back. “He is. Let’s move on, shall we? I really do hate underground facilities loaded with horrible experiments. I have _yet_ to have a good experience with one.”

Steve followed him. “There a story there?”

“There was this one time in Montana.” Loki snorted, glancing back over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it sometime if you like. It was disgusting.”

“Sounds like a normal day at SHIELD.”

They both had a sour laugh at that. A little later on, two trucks drove off, leaving the old facility open and in silence, waiting for nature to take it back. As nature always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of today's finale.


	24. Epilogue: Humanity

Loki stared down at the seated director, Jeffrey Mace, with a mild expression and his hands clasped neatly together, watching the man fiddle with a pen, watching him back in silence. A meaningless duel. Whoever broke it gained first salvo. It didn’t matter. Loki intended to have the last major shot, but patience was always a tactically useful value. So, meanwhile, he waited to see what the new director of SHIELD would do.

The pen jiggled and fiddled and finally dropped back onto a desk that Loki realized he still considered Coulson’s. For a split second he broke his stare and glanced around, still finding it odd that none of the man’s usual accoutrements adorned the room. The axe was gone, as were the smaller gadgets and the occasional mislaid piece of watch-fixing gear. The room felt somehow sterile now. A businesslike desk filled with businesslike busywork, and the situation monitors that filled the wall behind Loki. That was the beginning and the end of this new leader’s identity. Leadership itself, at all costs.

_He means well, this Mace. Coulson is, I suppose, in the right about that._ Loki sighed silently and returned his gaze to the human, the only hint of the action a flare of his nostrils. He did not otherwise shift or change expression. He waited.

Mace gave in and dropped the pen, leaning back in the chair with a perturbed expression. “Agent Coulson took you on a road trip, ostensibly to tie up loose clerical ends relating to Hydra. I wind up with Dr. Radcliffe admitting he’d been approached by you two, lies about what went down in Arizona, an unauthorized intrusion on a government facility in New Mexico, a trip to South Africa on the company dime, Cape Town’s police reports regarding half a dozen men - Hydra supremacists, admittedly - seriously injured, a village under emergency evacuation, a destroyed Nazi-themed facility containing 084-level secrets that we will not be recovering, and now Coulson brought a civilian _kid_ here while he uses our resources to place him. How _exactly_ am I supposed to feel about all that, you think?”

Loki studied him, thoughtful. “Annoyed to an extreme degree, enough to consider drastic action against your misbehaving agents, although perhaps also quietly pleased that a major issue has been handled quietly enough that the truth of these interconnected incidents - and who was involved in resolving it - will never enter the public eye.”

Mace arched an eyebrow at his bluntness, lips pursing.

“I would add, however, that I personally advise you to lay aside your notions of sanctions against Coulson for his decisions here. Not as a threat, of course.”

“He went against established policy and chain of command regulations to run off on a grudge match.”

“That’s paperwork, Mace. It’s meaningless.”

“Rules _matter_.” Mace snapped the words.

“And a leader knowing when to bend matters more!” Loki snapped right back, lining up his vital shots with an assassin’s clear eye.

Mace froze, livid redness crossing his brow. He opened his mouth to speak.

Loki cut him off with a wave of his hand, firing. “You’re in charge now. This something I agreed to when I chose to remain with the organization during the transition. Up to this point, I have also willingly - if privately grudgingly - gone along with those rules and your new observation. Coulson reminds me of why I bother, and speaks for you as to why you think these rules work. But I have been a ruler, Mace, for better and for worse, and if you let the book of law’s iron word rule all, you will _fail_.” He stared dead into Mace’s hot eyes. “It takes, to my chagrin, a measure of what we might as well call _humanity_ to lead well. Coulson has that. And you might think I only remain because of his tenure and the history there. Understandable. But not entirely correct.”

“Then what _is_ the reason?” Mace sounded chilly.

“To make certain you don’t make the same mistakes _I_ did. Nothing else will help destroy this place all over again as quickly as that.” Loki smiled fleetingly, his expression wry. “Remember mercy. And adaptation. They are equally important and sometimes more so than the rules you cling to.”

Mace’s face was still hot. “You say to not discipline Coulson. What about _your_ actions in this matter?”

“I, quite literally, could not care less. Discipline me or no. Strip me of the damned division I vaguely oversee. I did what I felt was right on behalf of a friend, and with an eye to ensure he didn’t create more danger for himself than necessary.”

Mace slumped in his chair. Loki recognized it as slight defeat, but didn’t relax. The confrontation might not be entirely over yet. Mace looked away. “Coulson had seniority, meaning you were following his command by going along. If I refuse to discipline him, I can’t fairly discipline you.”

Loki pursed his lips, waiting to see if Mace was going to ignore his advice or not. If he did… Well. Someday he’d have to return to Asgard, if not first keep to a wanderer’s life for a time.

“Coulson’s report seems to have left out certain details, enough that I can find gaps and ask questions. What happened to the 084 Hydra had at this secret base. Who the boy really is. Any outside help you two may have received during this trip.”

“Do you require those details?”

Mace suddenly looked tired. “Who’s the kid, at least?”

Loki smiled at him, knowing now he’d won. “Just a boy. His genetic profile, which I understand will be filed later, will be a little different. His name is Taran, and he’s earned for himself whatever he can shape into a normal life.”

“The 084? A dead Asgardian that had been used for genetic experimentation. Found dead?”

“According to Coulson’s report.” In deference, he let the omission sit obvious. It would be up to Mace to call it out. “He was returned to Asgard with proper ceremony. Diplomatically, that should be enough to lay that matter to rest.”

“God.” Mace rubbed a hand across his forehead, the migraine starting to show in the tension-lines around his eyes. “I give up. You two win. If it ever comes up, this was now a deep cover operation to protect our international integrity against supremacist intrusion.”

Sounding cheeky, Loki went for it. “While we’re being personable, can we get those extra thermal cameras out of my damned residential hall?”

“Don’t push me right now, Agent Loki. I’ve left your mess in the library alone.” Mace dropped both elbows onto his desk, cradling his skull. “How does Coulson put up with you? Get out. Please. And tell the guy outside to get me a really big mug of coffee.”

. . .

Dwarven rune-mead apparently came in stone bottles, their ‘corks’ made of a spongelike rock intended to allow the fermenting contents to aerate and richen over centuries without shattering the cement-like container. It was etched deep along the sides and those etches filled with golden runes that Coulson couldn’t read, an odd little monument adorning the table between them in the common lounge. He had a shotglass worth of its contents in front of him, the smallest shotglass he could find in the entire damn facility. He’d strongly considered starting with a thimble, based on previous Asgardian drinky experiments.

This stuff was, not that Loki had put it quite this way, supposed to be a major-league ass-kicker. Loki, meanwhile, had a proper whiskey-glass of the amber fluid in his hand. Eyeing that in comparison, Coulson took an experimental sip. It was deliciously honey-like, sunlight in liquid form, for the half second before his tongue went numb. “Okay,” he mumbled around it, blinking fast. “What’s the story with this stuff?”

“Rune-mead is a unique brew, requiring carefully curated sap from a species of underground root so rare that only a certain priesthood among the Dwarves know where they grow. They are harvested once every few centuries, and each batch takes equally long to prepare by secret means that include mage-work even I don’t understand. The liquid then waits in barrels for upwards of millennia before decanting into stone. They are used for ritual, harvest festivals, and as tithe to the sitting All-Father, who has for countless generations maintained a private cellar containing examples of each ‘seasonal’ harvest in the palace. As a prince and as a dedicated thief, I long ago decided this one’s not going to miss a bottle here or there.” Loki took a slug off his drink, blinking rapidly himself. “I mean, those are _really_ _big_ ruddy cellars.”

Coulson stared, realizing just how hearty this stuff was if one sip already got _Loki_ loose. He looked at his much tinier shotglass and resolved to drop down to microsips. “Things go okay with Mace yesterday?”

“Mmm, well enough.” Loki moved to take another dose, then thought better of it. Probably for the same reasons as Coulson. “I don’t think we’ll be hearing more from him about our odd misadventure for a while.”

That said, dumb ideas were go. Coulson took that minuscule sip and realized he couldn’t feel his toes. “God. That’s something. I thought at least one of us was going to be out of here on our ass. I was reading up some Powerpoint tutorials the other day, thinking I could at least start over as a history substitute in Wisconsin or something. I dunno what you’d do. Tear ass across the galaxy again.”

Loki gave in and took a cautious knock himself. “Could bunk in the back of Rocket’s smelly ship for a while. He’d adore that.”

Coulson giggled, which turned into a snort. “Dwarves. God. What a universe.”

“This isn’t even one of the older brews. Those will absolutely knock out an aurochs. They pulled out a… what was it… twenty-five millennia old batch when Thor came of age. We were finding unconscious warriors in haylofts and festival stalls for weeks. This one is practically a yearling.”

“Hell.”

Quiet settled over the borrowed and otherwise quiet lounge for a while. Loki took another sip, visibly turning morose. Coulson watched the change in his expression. A moody drunk, he always was. “When do we stop hating each other, Coulson?”

“When we’re dead. The universe’s greatest equalizer.”

“You’re going to be uplifting tonight.” Loki finished his glass and set it down, looking at the bottle with mistrust.

“Why do you ask? It was the guy, wasn’t it? Greyval.” Coulson watched his friend tunnel in on himself. The obvious conclusion he’d drawn popped out of his mouth before he could reconsider the wisdom of it. “You showed him who you were.”

Loki shook his head, his voice low. “Instant hate. Everything I’ve seen before, like wildfire. In mirrors, even. The jotun wars never ended for him, not until I-“ He looked away before pouring himself more mead. “These white supremacist groups that take the All-Father’s name. These Odinsrages and others like them. They bother me. More now. Because there have been long centuries where he would have very nearly approved of that mindset, if he didn’t think of humans as barely sentient. That kind of easy hate of something different. It’s driven the kingdom for countless years. Makes war an easy job.”

“But that’s changing now for Asgard, a bit.”

“Slowly. Always slowly. Can all fall apart with a breath. Jotunheim’s queen knows that full damned well, too.” A crease went across his pale brow. “I told you. Hubris, coming along on this mess. Not the right person at all to stand up for your kind of morality. And I paid full due for it. Why else would I have to be there to help that old man into the stars? By what awful, planned crossing of fate? The Gods damned well kicked my arse for this one.”

“I’m sorry.”

Loki shrugged it off wordlessly, drinking more.

“I don’t get it all, but I do think you tried to do the right thing.” Coulson took another tiny sip, assuming the way the world shifted around him was normal. “He was like a lot of our problems here on Earth, some of whom ran the joint he was stuck in. An old guy, stuck in the old ways, never even considering how society can change while he wasn’t looking. And he had sympathy coming, he didn’t deserve how he was kept, but he still got raised to hate people. A whole cultural stewpot of hating. We’ve got millions of people like him in this country alone. Most of them vote.”

Loki looked away again, abruptly changing tactics. “Where’s Taran, then? I saw the memo this morning and barely got a chance to say a farewell. You pulled something off, as hoped.”

Coulson finished off the glass, waving off a refill. “I asked around but started with my first choice. Worked out exactly the way I wanted. Agent Triplett’s mom still lives in New York, got a network of family with her these days. She’s always been a steady friend of SHIELD, even though we couldn’t bring her son home. I asked her if she’d be willing to take in a kid who doesn’t have any family of his own. Gave her the basic brief, let her know what she’d be getting into. She flew in this morning, I took Taran down to the airport to meet her. I can already tell you they’re gonna get along great, and I think the city is gonna blow his mind.”

“That’s all right then.” Muted, but content. “He deserves that chance to enjoy a free life for a while.”

“I’m going to ask something and I don’t want to end up eating this stone bottle, because I’m asking for good reasons, not to be an ass.” Coulson slouched in the chair, knowing full well the buzz he had was why he was even considering forging ahead, what with the look he was getting. “Why don’t you talk with the queen about some of the stuff that still bothers you? I know you’ve made peace with some things about who you are, and you two sort of get along, but it’s still not exactly a world of fun all the time yet. Kind of wallpapered a room over it just a few days ago.”

“Queen Farbauti?” Loki barked a sharp laugh. “I have no wish to waste her time.”

“Why not?” He managed to swallow the bit about ‘ _dude, isn’t she kind of your other mom?_ ’ before it came out, in a magical fit of self-preservation.

Loki turned irritable, refilling his glass. “Despite all our family’s faults, I was still raised in great privilege. Some of her handmaidens would have watched their own children die because that family that raised me placed such sanctions on their lands that survival was often fatally desperate. What _right_ do I have to go begging to her with my comparatively meager issues?”

Coulson couldn’t think of what to say to that at first. It was a honest response. He studied the ceiling for a while, fighting to work out the problem.

Loki watched him struggle. “Just drop the topic, please.”

For some reason, that kicked off a moment of inspiration. “You started it, asking how to make people stop hating each other. And Loki, part of the actual damn answer is talking to each other. Yeah, sometimes that doesn’t work - we saw that together. Sometimes it’s like what you told me Cap said, all we can do is beat the shit out of evil until it doesn’t have a toehold anymore, can’t infect anyone else. Violence is also an evil, and sometimes it’s the lesser evil. We chose that this time. But when possible, we have to _try_ to understand each other. Give someone a chance to change, to see something in a new way. Empathy kills evil better than anything else. Seeing people as _people_.”

“ _There’s_ the optimistic sort I used to be annoyed by.” Loki stretched an arm along his own chair, sardonically amused.

“It worked on you.”

“And that was one Hel of a gamble.” Loki drained his second glass, following it with an all-natural yawn. “Always thought you were utterly mad for trying it. Still do.”

“But it worked. Look, you already have some perspective. You know you’re not out to try and paint yourself as the world’s biggest victim anymore. Don’t look at me like that, you’re getting drunk, you’re not scaring me. You’re still carrying this stuff around, though. You’ve been quiet since we left the facility. Whatever you did for Greyval hurt you. So talk to _somebody_ about it.”

The low, derisive snort did not fill Coulson with confidence. He realized he was heroically annoyed with Loki. “Fine, whatever, blow it off, do that defensive thing you do. You’ll give out advice all day long when you feel like it, but god forbid you listen to any of it when _you_ get in a snit.”

That got Loki’s eyes flashing a dangerous green at him. Then, just as quick as the anger came, he let it go, turning his attention back to his drink. Coulson took the quiet response as some kind of progress. “I will consider what you’ve said.”

“Good enough.” Coulson looked at the stone bottle, making a decision for his own safety. “That stuff is delicious, but I’m switching to beer.” He put his hands on the armrests of his chair, unsteady but ready to hoist up and wander over to the fridge.

“Wait! Do-“ Loki was half out of his chair.

Coulson rose in a hazy sea, and then his legs collapsed out from under him, unable to do anything but laugh like an idiot as he hit the carpet. Nothing hurt. “I thought just my toes went numb.”

“Are you all right?” Loki was reaching down, trying to help him back up.

“Could have warned me Dwarf mead doubled as an anesthetic.” Coulson was still laughing, making it difficult to move him. He could barely even roll over. Yep. He was done.

“I didn’t know.” Loki gave up and sat crosslegged on the floor next to him, reaching up for the stone bottle. “Forget it. Just lay there a while.”

“After this last week or so, that sounds okay with me. Maybe I’ll sleep here. This is a nice carpet. I never really looked at it this close before. I like the fringe. Should probably vacuum it.”

Loki sighed, swigging directly off the bottle. “Weak mortals.”

“You love us.”

“Shut up and pass out, Coulson.” Loki sighed and watched his friend begin snoring moments later, glancing at the rest of the silent lounge to be sure he wasn’t overheard. “And when you wake up, you damned well better assume you walked yourself to the couch in a blackout daze. Certain as Hel _I_ won’t admit to lugging you.”

. . .

_May 8th, 1945, London_

The dossier with its photographic, symbolic proof of the end of Germany’s genocidal regime lay closed on the table in front of her. Ever professional, Peggy Carter refused to rest her sweating glass of scotch on it, knowing full well that if she were personally at the charnel site of Adolf Hitler’s remains, she would at the very least spit on the bones.

Howard Stark shifted in the seat next to her, a much bigger and miraculously untouched glass of scotch in front of him. He’d seen the pictures, too, his cheeks pale next to his dark mustache. “That’s really it, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I watched Churchill speak at Whitehall earlier and I still can’t take it in.”

“Well. The Pacific front is still active, Howard.” She turned the glass in her hands before letting go and rubbing them on the knees of her brown trousers, watching joyous soldiers hug each other firmly in the doorway of the pub. They were alive. Many of them were going home. She was glad for them, she thought. Meanwhile, private reports suggested the oceanic struggle with Japan was going to be a shorter affair from here. She suspected some things from those reports, saw the ways in which Stark’s mustache twitched when plans she didn’t have access to came up. The science and technical divisions were up to something. She wagered it would be a brutal thing. Necessary? She didn’t know. There were deep questions here, but then, there always were. Some of those questions lurked in other files, secret but not forgotten. Peggy remembered them all. “I can’t take full joy yet.”

Howard looked at her, seeing what she wasn’t going to say, what she was actually covering for. “He deserved to be here to see it, Peggy.”

She swept the glass back into her hand and took a most unladylike knock off of it. Blast Howard for his occasional clarity. She went back to watching the soldiers, trying to feel their joy for herself. “Yes. He did. Steve gave as much as any of them did. Perhaps a little more. He gave the war everything, bones to blood.”

“I’m never going to stop looking for him, Peggy. I promise you.”

“Why, Howard? It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” She continued to watch the soldiers celebrate, feeling nothing but ash in her heart. A little warmth, and a cold, dry mouth.

“He deserves to go home a hero. Just like the rest of these guys.” Howard pushed his drink aside and leaned across the table towards her as the mask of her face creaked slightly, showing emotions she rarely allowed in wartime. “Give me your hand, Peggy. Come on.”

Hesitant, she did.

Howard squeezed it gently, frowning at her. “You’re always the one that reminds us of what’s worth fighting for. What everything means, what we stand for. Even when we make mistakes, even as we’re gonna keep making mistakes. So I’m going to sit here, and hold your hand while you’ve got that sad face on, and wait for you to remember what you symbolize to a whole lot of us. Just as much as Captain Rogers meant to his guys.”

She managed a smile for him, a small one. “Howard.”

“You’re our _hope_ , Peggy. Our straight line, the reminder to be decent, to do our best no matter what. And I think you had to be stronger than Steve for that. You’re always going to be. Because now we gotta do the hard part. We gotta move on and live, remembering what we’ve done here. The good and the bad.”

Her smile broadened, attempting to hide the glisten in her eyes. “Damn you, Howard.”

He didn’t let go. “What are you going to do from here? Go back to Bletchley?”

She laughed, a small one but real enough. “I don’t think my heart is here any longer. I think I’m going to keep with the service while I can. Follow it back to its home.”

Howard almost let go, surprised. “To New York?”

“Why not?”

“Those guys in the states aren’t as, uh, enlightened as some of your London boys.” Howard looked doubtful for a moment before giving her that trademark Stark boy’s grin. “But okay, forget I said that. If anyone can make their way in the Big Apple, it’s you. And if you ever need help, I’m there.”

Peggy squeezed his hand back and then let go. “Thank you, Howard.” She picked up her glass and raised it to him. “For hope.”

“For hope, Peggy. And for the people we had to leave behind.”

Two glasses clinked, a promise for better times to come.

In Trafalgar Square not far away, bells still rang to say they were free and that there would be a tomorrow in which to begin to remake the world. There would always be another tomorrow.

Hope, Peggy still believed, was worth fighting and dying for.

_~Fin_

_“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” ~ Elie Wiesel_

_2/23/17_ All relevant rights remain in the hands of Marvel with no infringement intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:
> 
> I don’t try to be overtly political in fanfiction. It’s fanfiction, we’re here to have a good time and read about our beloved characters doing cool things or kinky things or whatever we want to enjoy. But this one was written, more than any other fic I’ve done, for myself. Largely to help deal with my feelings regarding the rise of hateful action and partisan cruelty, and the rising fears of fascism after the US 2016 election. There’s no getting around that. It colors the background of the entire fic, but I tried to do my part to not make it so overt that we felt strangled by the real world reading it. It matters, though. What’s going on in the US as I write this afterword matters.
> 
> Arnaud Bruin is a rework of Arnold Brown, comic history’s version of the head of Imperial Hydra. In this story he’s also very much a paper tiger as Coulson points out, a man who believes he has all this power owed him, but falls apart when faced with real world consequences. A small man who thinks he’s much bigger when propped up by willing lackeys. The world is unpleasantly full of them.
> 
> Taran, besides the obvious literary influences, is not drawn straight from comics. Functionally he’s an OC, although Schmidt has had children and clones of him made before. I attempted to base him on Hugo Weaving’s physical appearance, but his actions are all a normal boy’s in an abnormal situation. As the unwilling embodiment of Johann Schmidt’s potential return, I wanted to subvert that potential, fire back at the more ambiguous ending of The Boys From Brazil. I wanted a reminder that little in the world is born evil - and we can choose to be better.
> 
> Greyval Grimson is one of the world’s most minor footnotes in the Marvel Wiki, but he did exist in comics. His end is based on certain mythological assumptions - if a warrior does not die in glorious combat against an enemy, Odin will never let you into his personal hall in Valhalla. You can make a guess how Loki ‘won’ the fight. It didn’t seem important to show it, only that it was clear what it meant to these two.
> 
> The concept of using ’Uber’ to change mankind in both Peggy’s flashbacks and the reveal above is something of an homage to Kieron Gillen’s ongoing and difficult comic series of the same name. His heavily-researched and historically themed series takes the frequent nerd question ‘How cool would WWII would have been with superheroes?’ and attempts to answer it in the most brutal and definitive of ways. The short answer is ‘not very cool at all.’ It’s a hard read, a gruesome and unglamorous read, but a good one. I recommend it with caution. It’s not for everyone.
> 
> Duquesne is obviously a fictional community. It is inspired very loosely by the real world community of Orania. Orania lives in a closed bubble of ‘soft racism’, a private village of cultural Afrikaners who only allow new residents if they speak the language and bleed the blood of their Dutch heritage. Black South Africans have never lived there, though they claim it’s not outside possibility. While I support the right to be proud of your culture, Orania exists without the acknowledgment that it was Dutch imperialism that gave them their dominance in South Africa, and led to a legacy of apartheid whose scars bleed today. And while their white leadership met peacefully with Nelson Mandela a couple decades ago, they also said that Mandela would be a brilliant leader… of a different country.
> 
> Soft racism. The kind that seems socially okay at first. It isn’t.
> 
> I won’t hammer you with a long political treatise here. But I ask, if you can, to consider supporting well-known US groups like the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, the Sierra Club, and look into any local Indivisible chapters operating in your area if you’re afraid of the direction the United States is heading in under the 45th President. I know I am.
> 
> I believe in what these characters stand for, however. I believe in hope. I believe in a better America. And I believe in each of us. Thank you for coming along for this story. In it, I hope you found some of the same comfort I had writing it. It’s been a long few months. We’re not done yet.
> 
> And remember, it’s not legally right to punch an actual Nazi - but if you find one peddling his genocidal mindset, you probably fucking should.


End file.
